


Metamorph

by andthekitchensink



Series: Metamorphoses [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anti-Android Sentiments (Detroit: Become Human), Attempted Murder, Fluff and Angst, Fluid Androids, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Polyamory, Ken Doll Android Anatomy | Androids Have No Genitalia (Detroit: Become Human), Long Hard Road Ahead, M/M, Miscarriage, Music is a Big Deal, Other, Overcoming Obstacles, Pansexual Hank Anderson, Post-Peaceful Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), Violence Against Androids (Detroit: Become Human)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-07-03 22:20:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 137,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15828072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andthekitchensink/pseuds/andthekitchensink
Summary: After the deviant revolution, peaceful though it was, Hank and Connor try to figure out where their relationship is going. It isn't going to be easy, but they agree to pretend they both know what they're doing. Then disaster strikes, little by little - and then a lot - and just when Hank thinks it can't get any worse, the universe proves him wrong.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This story deals with matters of identity, sexuality and the potential lack thereof, of gender and the roles associated with such. It deals with life, and love (mostly love), and the things people do because or despite it. Hank is pan, but not really that interested these days, Connor is fluid. As if love wasn't complicated enough to begin with.
> 
> Life in the late 2030's is a largely dystopic mess with a light at the end of the tunnel, but that doesn't mean love will automatically save the day.

 

_They say ‘When it rains, it pours. It should be ‘When it snows, you get a fucking shit storm’. You see the signs, you can smell it, and it still leaves you blindsided. Covered in crap._

 

_Or...not crap. More like trouble. Headaches. A tightness in your gut that you can’t shake off even with a stiff drink, or ten._

 

_The past months had been a lot like that. Deviants start popping up all over the place, no one knows what the fuck to do. Fast forward three months, I get saddled with the deviancy case, aptly dubbed by the bigwigs in charge. Get a plastic piece of goody two-shoes, licks-stuff-off-crime-scene-floors, nosy, opinionated asshole for partner with an annoying voice and a face you want to punch. Or, kiss._

 

 _I bet that would’ve shut him up. Him, with his adaptability and pragmatism and analytical approach and his_ I’m just a machine _spiel. Bullshit. He’s not just a machine. I had him pegged long before he did. Bull._ Shit _._

 

_So. I get saddled with the deviant case, and an android super agent specifically designed to hunt ‘em down like animals. Fast forward six days, he’s saved my life three times, possibly four, spared a pair of deviants who just wanted to be together, let another one of them escape to keep me from falling off the side of a building… He refused to execute one of them to get information, because he ‘looked into her eyes’ and he couldn’t do it. He befriended my dog, he found out about my son. He caught me in the aftermath of surviving a game of Russian roulette, and he didn’t judge me. Or pity me. He wants me to stop drinking, and the funny thing is, I find myself telling the barkeep no thanks every now and then. I haven’t had a limit in years. My only limit used to be passing out, and now I’m turning down drinks before last call?_

 

_And he...looks at me. Ever since that night of the ceasefire, November 11, he’s had this look in his eye. Like he’s proud of me. Of himself - what we did, together, as a team._

 

 _We don’t yell at each other as much (or,_ I _don’t. I don’t think he’s yelled at me in anger, not once). He seems to know when to keep his big mouth shut, and I know sticking a gun in his face won’t do any good. Can’t believe I did that. Can’t believe how close I came to pulling the trigger, or how he’s never mentioned it, since._

 

_We’re coming up on December, and he’s stuck between worlds. Detroit police doesn’t know what to do with him, the government doesn’t know fuck-all what to do about all these androids suddenly demanding basic civil rights, but at least people aren’t still evacuating major cities. Detroiters have been coming back since November 12th - not just because Detroiters belong in Detroit (this is our city, dammit), but because under Markus’s lead, the deviant ‘uprising’ was a non-violent one. He’s the Mahatma Ghandi of the modern age. Now, even if the riots have fizzled out it’s still dangerous out there if you’re a non-organic entity, because some people just don’t want to get on the love-and-peace-boat, and Connor’s lumped in with the rest of the deviants - so what the fuck do you do?_

 

_If your name is Connor, and you recently turned your back on everything you knew to be true in order to be your own person? You have a spot on my couch with your name on it, and that’s that. Period. No fucking arguments. I never thought I’d let an android into my house, let alone invite it to stay until everything calms down. Not that he’s moved in, or anything. He just drops by every now and then, unannounced, to watch whatever game is on. Basketball, mostly. Go Detroit Gears, oorah._

 

_He calculates the trajectories of the shots, predicts who will catch which ball, or score how many points, who will fumble. I bet against him. Connor disapproves of gambling, so we use peanuts, or chips. Somehow his winnings have a way of making their way back to my side of the table. Prick._

 

_Sometimes I think he watches me more than the game, but the moment I try to sneak a look at him he’s all eyes on the screen. Sneaky prick._

 

_And there’s this sensation every now and again, this prickling on the back of my neck that tells me there’s something in his big, brown, ridiculous eyes that’s...new. I used to go out of my way to get a reaction out of him, something other than the pragmatic, Get the Job Done (at Any Cost) attitude that grated on my nerves until I thought I would snap. Pushed him up against a wall, got all up in his face like a bulldog, didn’t work. Pulled my gun on him, didn’t work. And now, all I get is Other Than, and it’s...a strange new world we’re living in._

 

 _I don’t know what to think of it. Feel about it. It tickles my spine, the way he smiles at me at times, and sometimes when he says my name I swear it’s like I’ve never heard it before. It’s all new. Brand new. Except, I think I saw that same_ something _in his eyes that night, 11/11, after the demonstrations, after the cease-fire. He looked at me with something_ new _in his eyes, and I felt it too._

 

_Part of me is terrified of what it all means._

 

_Part of me can’t wait to find out._

 

_I don’t know which scares me the most._


	2. Music and Lyrics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One night watching the game at Hank's house, Connor asks a pivotal question. Hank is skeptical, but decides to take a leap of faith.

* * *

 

 

“Hank?”

 

“Hm?” Hank took a swig of his beer, keeping his eyes on the screen. His mind wasn’t really on the game, despite the nail biter it was turning into. Two hours of watching a bunch of guys chasing a basketball, and he didn’t even know which team was winning, his mind was too full of strange thoughts. By the sound of it, chances were his android guest was onto him.

 

“I was wondering…”

 

Or not. Hank clipped his narrowing eyes to the side, cop instincts coming to the fore. Connor didn’t usually hesitate, or begin his sentences with ‘ _I was wondering’_ . If he wanted to ask personal questions (and he did. A lot), he asked just that: _‘Can I ask you a personal question, Lieutentant?’_ If he had a dollar for every time Connor had asked him that… Not to mention, if Connor had an opinion, he voiced it. The only times he hesitated was when his programming experienced cognitive dissonance - or whatever the technical term was. So. This was different. Connor had, to Hank’s impeccable recollection, never, not once, prefaced a query with ‘I was wondering’. Hence, cop’s instincts. Hank turned his head, and saw that unlike most other game nights, Connor’s eyes were glued to the screen. Also, unlike most game nights, he’d opted for the leather armchair instead of the couch. On Hank’s right. Meaning he couldn’t see the tell-tale LED Christmas tree lights on his temple. Was that on purpose, he wondered.

 

Hank leaned forward, elbows on his knees, beer bottle hanging from his fingers until it touched the floor between his bare feet. He peered at his friend, trying to get a better look at his face, but Connor looked away - as if Sumo had _suddenly_ caught his attention, wanting a belly rub. As if the big mutt hadn’t been sprawled at the guy’s feet the entire evening.

 

“...what?”

 

Connor cleared his throat, eyelashes fluttering. Even if Hank couldn’t see his LED or get a good look at his face, he could see that much. He heard the tension in his voice even before he spoke up again.

 

“I was wondering if you would like to have coffee with me, sometime.”

 

Hank blinked, glad he’d set down the bottle, or it would’ve dropped from his fingers. “Coffee?” He echoed, and the world seemed to revolve around its axis in slow motion, because the next thing out of Connor’s mouth was even stranger.

 

“It is customary to ask a potential partner out for beverages in a non-threatening environment,” said Connor, eyelashes still moving like little hummingbird wings. Everything seemed slowed down just enough that you could catch the movement. Slow-mo. And then he said, in something closer to his teasing voice, “Unless you prefer dinner and a show.”

 

Hank blinked again, slower this time, and picked up his bottle for another small swig. Funny how someone who had seemed to pride himself on being stoic, void of emotion, could sound so vulnerable. It made something clench in Hank’s chest. He had a feeling this night would end in disappointment. One way or the other. “You watch me eating all the time, Connor,” Hank said, quiet but determined not to jump to conclusions. “You give running _commentary_ on my eating habits.”

 

Was teasing the way to go? He didn’t have a clue, but his eyes never left his friend’s face, what little he could see of it. “I’m not trying to be an ass, but...just to be clear: you’re asking me out. On a date. A _date_ date?”

 

Connor said nothing, for one second, two, not a single noise out of him, and then a nod. Twice, three nods in quick succession. Hank had the sudden notion that if androids could sweat, Connor would be soaking through his shirt and butt-ugly-cardigan. He wondered where he’d found that thing. Possibly in the Lost and Found box over at God-Knows-Where-He’d-Been-Squatting.

 

Hank took a deep breath, watching the game but not really seeing it. So, he’d been right about those looks, about his suspicions that there were more to ‘em than the warm fuzzy feels of friendship. But what did it actually _mean_? For an android who had experienced the full range of human emotions for, what, a month? Was this misdirected gratitude, puppy love? A teenager’s crush on his mentor, or, worse yet, some sort of Grecian idolization of a parental figure?

 

More importantly, what the Hell were they going to do about it? “I’ll have coffee with you,” Hank said, slowly, making no sudden movements, still seeking eye contact and getting stonewalled. “But I need to know what you want out of it. We have coffee, we have a nice time… We’re already friends, so...then what? You gotta have a bunch of probable scenarios all...” he swirled his bottle in the air, a weird-looking, non-descriptive gesture for what he was trying to say. He wasn’t entirely happy with it, but this was all leaving him with a strange taste in his mouth. An off key twang at the back of his head. “Wrapped up in a bow. Ready for analysis. Walk me through it.”

 

Connor’s chest heaved, and his head lifted, turning towards Hank. His eyebrows were so tied in proverbial knots all the tiny little hairs got tangled. His face was uncharacteristically open, emotions flashing in his eyes, micro-mimicry turning his features into a picture of hopeful/determined/uncertain. “I considered a more direct approach of propositioning you. I estimated a 93% chance of you punching me in the face.”

 

Hank pursed his lips, bobbed his head side to side in a nod of sorts. “Fair enough.” When Connor hesitated yet again, Hank arched his eyebrows in what he hoped looked like wordless encouragement.

 

“I tried plotting out different scenarios, but it felt...wrong, so I stopped.”

 

Hank’s eyebrows stayed put. “Wrong, how? It’s just thoughts. Everyone’s allowed to imagine things happening. That’s what fantasies are for.”

 

Connor visibly twitched where he sat. “I’m not _fantasizing about you_ , Hank!”

 

“Alright, _sorry_ ,” Hank grumbled, holding his hands up in not-exactly-surrender, but it got the point across. “Then, what _are_ you doing? You want to go on a date, but you don’t want a romance or whatever, a, a relationship? You don’t want to screw an old boozehound, Connor. Right? What do you want from me?”

 

And just like that, Connor seemed to deflate before his very eyes. His questions had obviously struck a nerve, or a heart string, and Hank realized he was doing a shitty job of being a good guy about this whole thing, a good friend. So many questions, and Connor didn’t know how to start answering them. “Okay.” Hank put away the bottle, this time on the table, where it was hopefully safe from twitching limbs or sudden exit strategies. “Let’s back up a second. No more third degree cop shit. This is just, just you...and me. Talking.”

 

For the first time in several years, he wished he was sober. This was a conversation that deserved sobriety, a clear head, but he supposed they would have to make do with the hand they’d been dealt. He should be fully dressed for this, not in his goddamn excuse for a pajama. T-shirt and fucking sweatpants, for fuck’s sake. But, again: Hand. Dealt.

 

“Come on. Don’t sit all the way over there, there’s plenty of room right here, where you normally sit. _Come on_.” He gestured for Connor to get off his ass and git, and seeming reluctant and relieved at the same time, that’s exactly what he did. He shuffled his feet from under the 240 pound Saint Bernard and sat down on the couch instead, in his usual spot, on Hank’s left side. Palms flat on his knees, perfect posture as always. It made him seem very young, like a kid waiting outside the principal’s office. His LED was neon yellow, his movements muted but not quite so closed off as before. Maybe Hank was onto something, here. Maybe he’d figured out the best approach, after all.

 

“Look, I’ll be honest with you. I like you. A lot. But you drive me up the wall. You’re one of the most annoying people I know, android or not. You always stick your nose in my business, you never leave well enough alone, and that fucking coin trick? You drive me batshit insane, and that’s on a good day.”

 

Connor’s lips flattened into a thin line that made his mouth seem even wider than normal, like a cartoon. He shrugged. “You’re the most abrasive man I know. Or you were, until I met some of your colleagues. You have a horrible temper, a short fuse, you’re self destructive and unpredictable, you’ve admitted to suicidal tendencies. You drink too much. You eat nothing but junk food, and you know it’s going to kill you one day. But… I like you. A lot.”

 

Hank smirked, thinking fair’s fair. Fair enough. “Insults out of the way. Good. Compliments, then? Or should we leave that for the _date_ date?”

 

Connor seemed calmer, and his LED shifted slowly from that eye-hurting yellow to a serene blue. Their eyes met, and Hank just knew the guy was scanning him, analyzing him, weighing his options back and forth - but he wasn’t prepared for the actual response. Connor’s mouth slanted to the side in a toothache smile. And then he said, “You have the most expressive eyes I have ever seen. I think they’re beautiful. And your teeth. I don’t know why-- but I like them. They’re good teeth. Strong. They fit your face. They...suit your face,” and his eyes tracked to Hank’s mouth. But instead of pouncing, like Hank half feared he would, Connor leaned back into the corner of the couch.

 

“You like my teeth,” Hank echoed. His own voice sounded strangely thin. Tinny, like a tiny man stuck in a gigantic, empty tin can.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Okay. Well.” Hank glanced at Sumo, hoping the big pooch would give him some sort of sign. No luck there. “That’s not the most socially acceptable compliment, but okay. I think your ears are cute. If we’re gonna go there. And you got a fan- _tas_ -tic ass.”

 

Connor’s meticulously placed eyebrows arced, and his entire face spelled out disbelief. He seemed less enthused about the ass remark than the ears. His voice said much of the same. “Thanks. I think.”

 

“Fan. Tas. Tic,” Hank teased, feeling a grin stretching his face before he realized he was chuckling. “Ugh, Jesus, what are we doing? I haven’t flirted in _years_ , and I wasn’t any good at it. Never got the hang of it, didn’t see the point.”

 

“Clearly,” Connor quipped, dry as kindle, but his eyes glowed with mirth.

 

“Hah. You have a future in comedy, kid.”

 

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, each evaluating this new set of possibilities, this strange new horizon. Just a month ago, something like that, Hank had made some bilious remarks about the future of mankind, that with everyone and his auntie preferring to live with androids the human race would die out in no time...and here he was. Contemplating companionship with an android. Having enjoyed sporadic, platonic companionship with said android for weeks now. Did that make him a hypocrite? Or was Connor just different enough to make him think differently?

 

“Let’s do it,” he said. “Let’s go out for coffee, pretend we both know what we’re doing, and see what happens.”

 

Connor half smiled at him again, and uncurled his long legs to sit up more properly. “You’ll go out with me? You want to go on a date with me? The overgrown calculator?”

 

“You heard me.”

 

And then, just like that, Connor grinned. “I was just making sure you know what you’re getting yourself into.”

 

Hank groaned, shook his head, and picked up his beer. “Not a fucking clue.”

 

***

 

It would have been fine, to leave it at that. To take Connor’s earnest suggestion at face value and bask in the ego boosting glow of knowing you still got a bit of that elusive _Idunnowhatsit_ the French trademarked aeons ago. But Hank wasn’t new to the game of life, and he’d had more than his share of bumps in the road, battle scars - and somewhere in the back of his mind he started questioning if this was all some kind of elaborate prank. Not, that he imagined Connor to be the mastermind behind it. But he wouldn’t put it past the guy to be...innocent enough to be talked into it - and the guys at the precinct were a bunch of jackasses when they wanted to be. They’d all been around, more or less, to see Hank becoming firm friends with the android who wouldn’t stop following him around like a puppy. A headstrong, determined puppy who didn’t flinch at any of his outbursts.

 

He knew it was only a matter of time before the government would have to pass legislation to allow androids to earn a living, even if it could take months if they decided to drag it out. Possibly even years. _Politics_. He knew Connor had gone to see Captain Fowler, to argue his case, so to speak. To hash out a deal for an interim posting, free of charge. He also knew Fowler wasn’t opposed to it, as results are results are results - and boy did they get results in the deviancy case. Unofficial results, but still. Fowler wasn’t above making good use of resources, especially the free variety that his bosses higher up the food chain couldn’t technically complain about.

 

So, logically speaking, it followed that...as Connor had spent some time at the station, while Hank wasn’t around, or working on other cases (funny how people don’t stop killing each other, ever), one of Hank’s esteemed coworkers could have pulled him aside and presented him with a golden opportunity for laughs. Connor wasn’t gullible, but he could be very literal about things, and despite his highly advanced design, he could be entirely guileless. In high stress situations, life and death situations, sussing out a perp situations, he was like a razorblade - sharp, cutting, lethal. There’s no one else you’d rather have with you in the field - but interacting with humans off duty was...different. He still struggled, at times. He still tried very hard to fit in, which only gave Hank more questions to mull over. Connor was a deviant, but far as Hank knew he didn’t stay with the other androids, his own people, but kept darting back into the human world. He was deviant, but he hadn’t removed his processing LED. He seemed determined to be the outsider, whatever society he moved through, and Hank couldn’t figure out why.

 

After a night of tossing and turning, which in effect lasted little over an hour before the phone rang, Hank was very glad to get back to work. Take his mind off this teenager paranoia crap. Even if it did mean walking through yet another crime scene with a deadly outcome.

 

Funny how people just never stop killing each other.

 

***

 

A few days later, Hank was at his desk scribbling away notes on his latest case (on actual post-its), headphones on crooked, blaring death metal into his left ear just loudly enough to curtain him with his own version of white noise. He was in his own bubble, getting the tedious paperwork done, and nothing could distract him from it unless it was a level 3 emergency.

 

Or a hand suddenly on his arm, and a familiar face blocking his peripheral view. “Hello, Lieutenant.”

 

Hank jumped in his seat, headphones falling to the floor. “Jesus motherf-- _Connor_! Don’t do that! Whaddaya tryin’ to do, give me a heart attack?!” He kept cursing, while Connor’s eyes tracked down to his chest, and bounced back up to look at him with earnest professionalism.

 

“Your heart is in optimal condition for a man your age,” he said, eyes slanting to the side and back again. Sometimes he could swear he could see the Devil in the Machine when Connor looked at him like that. “Despite your dietary and drinking habits.”

 

“I’m working on those. As you well know,” Hank groused, while his heart kept on racing for no apparent reason. A startle is a startle, but come on. “I only had one box of donuts today.”

 

“You’ll be a fitness guru in no time,” Connor quipped, and looked towards the Captain’s office. “Fowler’s expecting me. Are you...free for coffee, after?”

 

That was it, the reason for Hank’s palpitations. He hoped it wasn’t immediately apparent to absolutely everyone present. He had an image to maintain - grouchy, bitter, immune to all kinds of touchy feely shit. He arched his eyebrows to hide his sudden onset of saucers-for-eyes, and clamped his mouth shut while his larynx did backflips. “Mhm.” He cleared his throat. “Sure. I’ll finish this up, and I’m done. Unless something new comes up. You know how it is.”

 

Connor nodded, and went to his meeting with the man in charge - or, he would’ve, if Reed hadn’t walked in like the resident bulldozer with an attitude problem. “Well, well, well. I hear we’re getting a new recruit! An intern with a degree in brown nosing.” He looked Connor up and down like the arrogant son of a bitch everyone knew he was. The bull pen went deathly silent, as Reed let loose another volley. “Or should that be ass kissing?” He looked between the android and Hank, who had more than half a mind to speak up, but for once didn’t want to pour gasoline on the flames. Decisions, decisions. “Give it a rest, Reed. He’s earned his place here. Go fuck with someone else.”

 

“Oh!” Detective Reed gave a hoot, his face lit up like the 4th of July. “That’s it! We’ve got our first spunk guzzler-in-training. I _knew_ Anderson was looking frisky! Who’d ‘ve thought cocksucking would get you ahead! Get it? A _head_!”

 

While Hank’s temper exploded, propelling him onto his feet, Connor lifted his hand to the center of his chest. It was a port in a storm, and it had the same effect as a cold shower. It sobered him right up. Connor, it seemed, was an expert in the field.

 

Their eyes met, and Connor was the one to turn his head towards Detective Reed, letting his hand resume its default position at his side. Hank recognized it as his non threatening/neutral stance, as opposed to his Awaiting Further Orders stance. It was an important distinction. “We both have better things to do, Detective Reed,” he said, loud enough, clear enough for the entire room to hear him. “Let’s not make this a dick-measuring contest.”

 

There was a smattering of laughter here and there, tinged with shock. The android, prim and proper, all suited up in his CyberLife issue uniform, bitch slapping a human colleague? Connor himself, RK800 extraordinaire, the most advanced prototype of them all, throwing down with _Reed_? By this point, people were staring openly, not an iota of shame to it. No one cared about the pretense of work. Even Fowler stepped out of his office, but Hank was the only one who noticed.

 

Unimpressed, Reed crossed his arms and leaned against the counter that sat like a rectangular island in the middle of the office space. “Plastic Fantastic wants to check out my junk? I’m flattered. Go ahead.”

 

And then Connor did something so left field to Hank’s mind, it left him staggering. Connor looked at _Detective_ Gavin Reed’s _family jewels_ , LED lights flashing serene blue at his temple. Goddamn android scanned his gonads, processing data. Then, in a display of empathy and remorse so perfect it would fit the Oscars, Connor shook his head. Corners of his mouth turned down, eyebrows slanted up towards the center of his forehead. “I’m given to understand most sexual partners feel size is of little consequence, while it can be a sensitive topic for most males. Is what why you’re not currently seeing anyone?”

 

The look on Reed’s face was priceless: as the room erupted in howls of laughter, his face drained entirely of color. His entire body seemed to twist, spine coiling and ready to spring into action, his face morphing into a mask of rage, just as the Captain’s voice rang through the entire station. Hank could’ve sworn people heard it on the other side of town.

 

“That is ENOUGH! Both of you, stand the Hell down, _right now_. Connor, my office! Gavin, get back to work!”

 

“Captain, did you hear that plastic piece of sh--?!”

 

Captain Fowler was a big guy, former Master Sergeant of the US Air Force, former Sergeant First Class in the Army. Nobody messed with him, or his people. Far as anyone was concerned, Connor was now counted among them: one of _them_ , period. “One more word out of your big mouth, Reed, and I’m writing you up for sexual harassment. Are we clear?”

 

If a guy could have kittens, Reed would’ve had a litter. Hank watched him sputter, while Officer Chen pulled him aside. He was a good cop, inasmuch as he got the job done and didn’t complain, but he was ruthless: to suspects, to perps, to colleagues, and God forbid you stood between him and an upcoming promotion. He was arrogant, acting superior to others in a way that didn’t reflect his accomplishments. It was good to see him knocked off his high horses, and even better to see Connor stand up for himself and walk away unscathed.

 

The boss man and his would-be intern went into his glass box office, closing the door behind them; Hank sat down at his desk, and picked the headphones off the floor, watching Chen drag Reed into the break room. The bullpen soon returned to its normal bustle of hard work and elbow grease, but there was a new vibe in the room now. The air felt lifted, somehow, as if something big had just happened, and everyone there had been witness to it. Hank could see it written clear across everybody’s faces - someone finally had the cojones to stand up to Gavin, take him down a peg.

 

On a more personal level, Hank was pleased to see Connor wasn’t quite so guileless as he’d thought.

 

***

 

By the time Hank was done typing up his reports and Connor had filled out his forms, the early December weather had taken a typically wintertime turn for the worse. A harsh wind sent the snow piling up against buildings and vehicles, and the snow itself was so thick in the air you could barely see five feet in front of you. Hank cursed when they made it out of the parking garage and saw the state of the roads. Automated winter road maintenance or no, it was going to be a rough ride for his old Ford Granada.

 

“I should’ve let you drive,” he muttered, A/C on full heat, wind wipers going triple time. He squinted out the window, left, right, center. He hoped he wouldn’t have to stop at any red lights, or they could get stuck in the snow. “You’re taking me out, you probably know where we’re going. Right?”

 

Over in the passenger seat, Connor was quiet, looking out the window. “The Java has a new android friendly policy. As long as we both buy something, I’m sure they won’t mind.”

 

Hank smirked, his dark sense of humor deciding to make an appearance. “Ten bucks say they call the cops on us.”

 

“Hank…” Connor said, in his most disapproving tone of voice, which only made Hank grin even wider.

 

***

 

The smell of coffee and cakes galore permeated the shop, which was fairly crowded despite the late hour. No androids, aside from Connor, but Hank hadn’t banked on this becoming a sanctuary for androids to _not_ enjoy their hot beverages. But it was a start. It was one step in the right direction to see a store that didn’t have an Androids Not Allowed sign threatening prosecution of owners on the front door.

 

Hank ordered a bagel and coffee, Connor just coffee, they paid for their goodies, and Hank pretended not to notice that Connor paid cash - or that he actually ordered a cup.

 

They picked a booth at the back of the shop, and Connor took a seat with his back to the wall, where he had a clear view of the entire room (and all its exits and entrances, Hank suspected: always prepared, like a boy scout). He dug into his cream cheese and lox bagel, complete with actual leafy lettuce, and watched as Connor scrutinized his coffee very intently.

 

“You’re not going to scan my food?”

 

Connor’s head swiveled atop his neck, eyes focusing neatly, as if he’d been miles away, deep in thought. It was...somehow humbling, to see him out of his depth. Hank hoped it wasn’t because he was having second thoughts about pranking him. Or the date thing. If it was a _date_ date, after all. “No. I don’t think that’s appropriate.”

 

Hank tilted his head, licking cream cheese off his eye tooth. “For a date, you mean?”

 

“Yes.” And oh, did Connor sit up straight like a goddamn streetlight. Guy had to learn how to relax. “I want to make a good impression.”

 

There it was again, that open, earnest stating-of-facts. More and more, Hank wanted to write off the paranoia of the past two days as just that: paranoia, not to be taken seriously, but he couldn’t help himself. As flattering as it was, to think someone found him worthwhile enough to pursue something, _anything_ with, he kept feeling like he was looking at things from the wrong perspective. From an entirely too human perspective. As much as Connor had grown into something other than the machine he was made to be, he was still an android. A robot, with feelings and opinions and a will and mind of his own. And heart. And Hank didn’t have the first clue what that meant.

 

“We’re past that point, though. You’re my friend, Connor, you don’t need to be on your best behavior just ‘cause we’re here.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“So?” Hank said when nothing else seemed to follow. If this was going to be about metaphorical teeth pulling, Hank was gonna have to get out the big pliers. “...do you...have any hobbies? You’ve said you’d like to listen to music, like humans do.”

 

That got his attention: those big eyes with the ridiculous lashes blinked at him and filled with what could only be enthusiasm. “I have indexed a few thousand recordings on file at the Detroit Public Library. I’m...listening to music, one song at a time. Headphones and everything.”

 

Hank could feel the tickling of a smile at his temples. “And you’re not just scanning them in point-three seconds and moving on, you’re actually listening to ‘em?”

 

Connor nodded, an echoing smile in his eyes. “I enjoy it. Mostly. Some of the lyrics aren’t very...lyrical. Some of them make me feel-- restless.”

 

He had another bite of his relatively-healthy bagel, and when Connor once again stalled, Hank shook his head at him, making big eyes - _go on already_. “Well?” He said through a mouthful. “Tell me about it.”

 

“There’s so much I don’t understand. The more I listen, the more it becomes apparent to me I lack the necessary frames of reference to fully appreciate lyrics-- but then suddenly I listen to a song, and it makes absolute, total sense to me, for no logical reason I can deduce. Händel’s _Cara Sposa_ makes me shiver, though I’ve never lost someone dear to me. Alison Moyet’s rendition of _Dido’s Lament_ made me think of death in ways I never have before.”

 

He set his eyes to the table, long fingers turning the ceramic mug by fractions, back and forth. It seemed to Hank like he couldn’t make himself look him in the eye. “Queen’s _Body Language_ annoys me, but their _Lazing on a Sunday Afternoon_ makes me smile.”

 

Connor shrugged, mouth tugging into an awkward grin. “‘Imagine me and you, I do, I think about you day and night, it’s only right’... But ‘I’m not in love, so don’t forget it. It’s just a silly phase I’m going through’...”

 

Stunned. That was one word for it, that tingling sensation at the back of Hank’s skull as he listened to Connor talk animatedly about music and lyrics. So he really did listen to songs, one at a time - and he formed opinions on them, like he did everything else. He...listened to music, enjoying himself. And also, up and quoted love songs at a guy some fifty plus years older than him, from well over a decade _before he was born_. Hank blinked, swallowed around a lump in his throat that had little to do with his bagel. “Well, that’s...something, alright. Hrm,” he cleared his throat, gulped down some coffee that was technically too hot for it, and pushed on. In his own estimate he was too old to get choked up over cheesy love song tropes. And still, at the back of his mind he couldn’t help waiting for someone to jump out from behind the cashier’s desk yelling APRIL FOOL’S. Despite the upcoming holiday season. Another swallow through a suddenly dry throat, and he decided to take the bull by the horns. Or the android by the lapels of his too prim uniform. Whichever.

 

“Was this…” and by _this_ , he gestured at the space between them, the table, the booth, coffee. “--something you came up with, on your own? Or, did someone suggest it to you?”

 

Connor’s eyes narrowed, and he tilted his head as if to get a better look at his date. Holy cows and baby Buddhas, Hank didn’t think he would ever get used to being analyzed like a specimen at a crime scene. “Suggest it to me? In what capacity?”

 

Hank shrugged, threw his hands up, shook his head. His heart started racing again, for no good reason, other than perhaps to tell him it was the worst possible thing he could’ve said. Bad cop, no good. Bad _friend_. “The guys at the station, they’re good guys, mostly, good friends-- But they...aren’t above playing dirty if they think they’ll get a laugh out of it. Harmless pranks, mostly. I’m just saying-- that...if this is some kind of joke, that’s fine by me. I won’t get angry. I might strangle Collins if he put you up to this, but I won’t be mad at you.”

 

Across the rounded table, Connor watched him in silence while yellow lights circled at his temple. His brow furrowed, and microscopic lines crinkled at the corners of his eyes. Here we go, thought Hank, _here we go_. “Chris showed me a picture of his son, Damian. He’s a very proud father. He started telling me about his life partner, Lisa, how happy he was to have met her. They stumbled into each other in a coffee shop, spilled coffee all over each other’s uniforms. Instead of parting ways, they ordered fresh cups and sat down. They talked  through their lunch break, and ‘that was it’. I asked him if that was generally considered a viable means of courtship. I didn’t mention your name. It’s possible he thought I was joking, but he said yes.” He gestured at their two cups, and Hank sat there, dumbstruck.

 

No prank, but not entirely Connor’s own idea. Well, the _idea_ was his, but the setting wasn’t. And that was fine, wasn’t it. “Alright. Okay.” Hank took a deep breath, and leaned back into the pleather seat, palms flat on the table. No prank. No fuckin’ prank, and _now what_ . “You’re serious about this. You’re...courting me. Quoting love songs at me. Do you-- I mean. You have... _feelings_. For me.”

 

The android nodded, the LED still chugging away, stop light yellow. His eyes met Hank’s, and it felt like they could see right through him. “I have...impulses. Irrational thoughts. I think about you constantly. When we’re not together, I wonder where you are, what you’re doing, if you’re safe. How things are going at work, if you remember to take a break before you can’t keep your eyes open. Is Sumo okay, are you at home watching the game? Are you eating, or--” A tiny huff of air escaped his lips. His eyebrows pulled together at the bridge of his nose. “Or are you passed out on the floor from too much drinking. I don’t mean to be judgmental, but I worry.”

 

Hank pressed his lips together, fidgeting where he sat. It wasn’t easy to hear, to sit there and just listen while the guy poured his heart out. “It’s okay. I appreciate it. You’re the only one aside from Fowler who holds me accountable for my shit.”

 

Connor shook his head, as if to say he wasn’t finished, or that it was only going to get worse from there on out. “Sometimes I watch your house from the other side of the street, and I can’t bring myself to ring the doorbell. I don’t want to crowd you, but I want--”

 

And wasn’t that a new word. For all the times in his life that he had used that word, or heard it thrown around like a basic human right, he had never heard it quite like he did now. ‘ _Want_ ’. It sounded magical. He leaned forward, eyes glued to Connor’s face in an attempt to catch every tiny little twitch in his face, every little sign of emotion and autonomy. He would never get another chance to see this, be here in this moment. He had to store it away, lock it up in the back of his mind and throw away the key, and never forget. Connor sat across him, breathing shallow puffs of air through his nose, too quiet now for Hank’s liking. He did the only thing he could think of. He scooted along the shiny blue seats until they were side by side, watching Connor observe his every move with eyes wide open. Close enough their knees touched. Hank downed the last of his coffee, and neatly switched their cups around. Connor wasn’t going to drink it, and it’d be a shame to let a decent cup go to waste.

 

“I want to be with you,” Connor whispered; Hank thought it was possibly the first time Connor had ever spoken so softly. “But I don’t want to intrude. I want you to be happy, I-- I want to make you happy, but I have no idea what that means. I feel more...like myself, when I’m with you. You treat me like a real person. Not android, or human, just... _me_.” His eyes had never left Hank’s, who met his searching gaze with newfound calm. He nodded, and opened his mouth to say something (hopefully) even remotely worthy of such declarations. His mind swimmed, but before he could say anything, Connor interrupted him.

 

“I like the person I am with you. You bring out sides of me I didn’t know I was capable of.”

 

It summed them up in ways Hank couldn’t have voiced on his own. He breathed in through his nose, feeling a smile spreading across his face despite his own best efforts. He nodded, again, and slipped his hand over Connor’s under the table. It was incredibly gratifying to feel his thumb squeeze his fingers in return.

 

“Ditto,” Hank said, because what else was there to say? He couldn’t top that. Any more touchy-feely talk, and he might explode into a swarm of purple butterflies. Not a good look for a bitter, middle-aged homicide detective. As previously noted, he had an image to maintain.

 

They finished coffee going over last night’s basketball game, ending up having a heated discussion over who was MVP; they talked music: Hank teasing Connor about his antiquated tastes, going so far as to call him grandpa. They settled on Judas Priest as common enough ground, Connor enjoying the energy of most of their body of work, and Hank conceding that _Electric Eye_ did have one of the best guitar solos in the history of heavy metal. “I used to play air guitar to that song, growing up. All the damn time.”

 

“Air guitar?” Connor’s mouth twitched into another smirk of disbelief. “You played an instrument?”

 

“No, no. And I didn’t just play, I was the _king_ of air guitar.” To Connor’s undisguised delight, Hank whistled a few bars from the aforementioned  _Electric Eye_ through the gap in his front teeth, and demonstrated his impressive skills.

 

Hank could feel it. He knew Connor felt it too: their lives would never be the same again.

 


	3. Are You Experienced

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor tells Hank a secret; Hank worries about the implications of dating someone who's only been alive for less than a year. Markus and Connor talk about feelings, and deviancy. Connor sings a song that's forty years older than Hank; Hank feels sixteen again, whether he likes it or not.

* * *

 

 

On the drive from the coffee shop, they argued over the lyrics to _Electric Eye_ , neither one backing down, both refusing to look it up - Hank said it was _clearly_ ‘I’m intermezzo, my serpent queen’, and Connor rolled his eyes at the stickers on the dashboard. Somehow they ended up at Hank’s house, under the pretext of watching a game together, like any other night - even though nothing could be farther from the truth. This night was a pivotal point in their relationship, one of many stepping stones from being colleagues to friends, to...this new frontier. It was all moving so fast. It felt like he’d considered Connor a friend within two days of knowing him. Begrudgingly so, to be fair, but still… Things were moving quite fast. He wasn’t sure how he felt about it, but at least he wasn’t alone in this boat, heading up that old metaphorical creek without a paddle.

 

They sat together in a semblance of comfortable silence, on opposite ends of the couch. Both still in their work clothes; Hank slumped into the corner and Connor sitting ramrod straight, hands on knees. Like any other night, but neither one of them were actually watching the game.

 

“Hank?” said Connor, like an echo of that other night, not even a week ago.

 

“Hm?”

 

“Can I tell you something personal?”

 

Hank’s ears perked up; Sumo snored by Connor’s feet. “Sure.”

 

Connor’s lips puckered, then thinned out, revealing a hint of his teeth. His eyes flicked from the screen to the coffee table, to Sumo. Anywhere but Hank. “I have never-- had sexual relations. With anyone.”

 

Not much of a surprise there, and it still made Hank’s mouth go bone dry. Typical, that now that he’s actually sober for this kind of conversation, all he wanted was to go grab a beer from the fridge. Or reach for his Black Lamb. He turned his head slowly, trying to be cool about this new fact-that-he’d-suspected. An android _and_ a virgin, good grief. “I had a hunch.”

 

“Oh.” Connor said, and Hank could’ve sworn he sounded embarrassed. Couldn’t have that. “I would’ve been more surprised if you’d had time for nookie, with your work ethic.” And that wasn’t a lie: during the time they’d worked together, Connor had been nothing if not focused, like a bloodhound, only allowing them a few moments here and there for ‘personal questions’. “Though, I guess with the past few weeks, you’ve had plenty of time to experiment--”

 

“I have _not_!” Connor turned those laser beam eyes on him, voice high pitched and indignant, before he realized Hank was just pulling his chain. “You think this is funny.”

 

“Nah. I think it’s cute. Why are you telling me this? You think I mind? I didn’t even know if sex was a Thing we were gonna be doing. Having. _Exploring_.”

 

Hank watched as Connor’s eyes narrowed on him, zooming in on him like a bird of prey - pretty, but potentially dangerous. It only took him a fraction of a second too long to realize what he was doing, and Hank threw his hands into the air between them, as if to distract from the very obvious scan he didn’t want to be part of. “Whoa, whoa, hey! Knock it off! You’re not scanning my goods, there’s nothing wrong in that department! _Geez_!”

 

Connor looked away, a muscle jumping at his jaw. “Apologies. I won’t do it again.”

 

“Damn right you won’t! Goddamnit.” Hank exhaled a huff of hot air, shaking his head at the tv screen. Danger averted, he dragged a fresh lungful through his nose, deciding on a more diplomatic route called Diversion. “I...really liked the way you handled yourself with Reed earlier. It was kickass. Couldn’t ‘ve done it better myself.”

 

Connor shrugged, blunt fingernails scratching the fabric at his knees. “I was out of line. Entirely unprofessional. I apologized to Captain Fowler, though I got the distinct impression he approved. He asked if I wanted to file a complaint against him, but I declined.”

 

“Of course he approved,” Hank groused, sitting up straight. “Reed’s been heading for a rude awakening since he set foot at the Academy. It’s about time someone dunked him in a bucketful of due course. Why the Hell didn’t you file a complaint?”

 

Connor shrugged again. “Nearly all of his closest colleagues were there to witness the incident. Captain Fowler heard it. Detective Reed knows what’s at stake if he persists.”

 

He did have a point, Hank had to give him that much. But he didn’t have to agree with him. “I still think you should’ve made a formal complaint. That way it’s on file. It’s on record, where it should be. You can’t let him get away with that shit so easy.”

 

And just like that, as if someone had waved a magic wand at them, Connor closed the gap between them on his own accord. He wiggled his feet out from under Sumo, who protested with a soft whine, and scooted sideways - until they sat close enough their knees touched, and Connor’s long, artful fingers reached out to barely touch his knee.

 

Hank closed his eyes; Connor’s hand felt cool through his trousers, but not cold. Rather, for all its apparent innocence, it sent a wave of warmth through his leg and up his spine.

 

“You worry about me,” Connor said, whisper-soft, “You care about me,” and Hank had to struggle to get his own voice back.

 

“Of course I care about you,” he ground out, voice whiskey-rough around the edges from years of heavy drinking, eyes opening to watch the android’s hand. He couldn’t bring himself to look him in the eye. He placed his hand atop Connor’s on his leg - to keep it in place or to keep it from going somewhere else, he wasn’t sure which. “Of course I worry about you. You’re my partner.”

 

Connor leaned back just far enough to try and catch his eye, and tilted his head in that distinct way of his - always processing, always considering different approaches, always so keen to figure things out. “Does that mean I’m your _partner_ partner, like we just went on a _date_ date?”

 

Always surprising him with friendly teasing, also. “Jerk,” Hank whispered, and suddenly it didn’t feel so different from his past relationships. He’d sat like this with other people, looked into other pairs of eyes, held hands of different shapes and colors. It was a long time ago, but not so long that he’d entirely forgotten how good it felt to sit like this: close enough to touch, and be warmed by the way someone looked at you. “I’ve missed this,” he said, and lifted his hand to brush fingertips over Connor’s face, following the angle of his cheekbone. It was all well and good until he leaned in for a kiss, what he presumed was a welcome enough gesture on a first date well into the ‘30s - but Connor flinched, and pulled back as if stung.

 

“I should go,” he said, brisk and determined, but his eyelashes fluttered. The lines on his face spelled out uncertainty, or discomfort. Quite probably both - but Hank decided to err on the side of caution, and back off. They’d had enough soul searching revelations for one night.

 

“You don’t have to.” He let his hand drift down, to rest atop his own knee. “But I won’t stop you.”

 

Connor’s mouth twitched, too far stretched and awkward enough for both of them. “I’ll see you at work,” he said, putting on a veneer of optimism that, in Hank’s own estimate, always seemed a bit too veneer-y. “As soon as I get the green light.”

 

Hank nodded, and gestured for Connor to go ahead, get going. “Clearance can be a bitch, but here’s hoping. You’ll be back to work in no time.”

 

***

 

_I was right. In a matter of days, everything was back to a semblance of normal. Connor was back to work in his standard issue CyberLife uniform, with extra special security clearance, which is to say no access to cases not pertaining to the deviants, and together we were whittling away at the growing pile of cases: deviants gone rogue, people lashing out against them, everything from homicide to domestic abuse to missing persons to angry mobs committing atrocities against them. The FBI was no longer involved, or at least, not messing with our jurisdiction. They had plenty enough on their plate to let us deal with the ‘minor incidents not pertaining to national security’. Things were fine. Connor had his own desk, the one facing mine. It was the only one available, and he was my partner. It made sense. It didn’t make my life any easier, having to sit with that face in clear view every single day. Or feeling his eyes on me when we were supposed to be working. We seemed to smile at each other all the time, sharing secret, knowing looks. He wore his heart on his sleeve, and I couldn’t help myself falling a little bit deeper every single day. I loved seeing him like that._

 

 _And if I noticed, everyone else did, too. Reed was pissed when Connor followed suit on filing a complaint against him, but he kept his mouth mostly shut. But that wasn’t the worst part. I couldn’t give a rat’s ass what the likes of Gavin fuckin’ Reed thought about me or anyone else - but the longer we worked together, the more close-knit we got, I could swear everyone at the station was looking at us differently. People stopped talking when we came back from a crime scene, following up a lead, whatever, when we walked into the room. Their eyes were always on us, one after the other, and I couldn’t tell what it all meant. What were they saying about him? About me, who cares? But what did they think_ _they knew about us? How would it affect him?_

 

_The more I thought about it, the more it knotted me up on the inside, made my stomach ache. I tried ignoring it, because I know I can get mired in dark thoughts that I can’t crawl out of. I tried, day in and day out, and things were looking up. For our second date, I got tickets for the next Gears basketball game at CyberLife Arena. I figured if Connor was ever going to appreciate the beauty of the game, he had to be there for one, feel the atmosphere, revel in the experience. As much as he ever seemed to revel in anything, I thought there couldn’t be anything wrong with a new experience - and I was right. He was out of his uniform for the occasion, in a mishmash of winter appropriate clothing - knitted cap to hide his LED (his initiative, not mine), cable knit sweater and a smooth scarf, and a jacket that almost made him look like something out of The Matrix. As much as I didn’t get his taste in clothing, he did have a way of putting odd bits together, and it somehow just-- fit. He looked like a cross between a preppy hipster and a college geek. It’s the scarf I remember, mostly. It was this deep, forest-leafy green that did something to his face I can’t put into words. It brought out-- something, something really nice, color or whatever, to his cheeks. It looked good on him._

 

_On the drive back we went over the details of the game, the many twists and turns it had taken before victory for the home team. Piece of cake with Connor’s perfect recollection. I got takeout from ChickenFeed and Connor said nothing about my burger and side order of jalapeño fries._

 

 _We ended up listening to music for hours, talking, singing along, arguing over lyrics and enunciation (or the lack thereof). I told him about growing up in the nineties, discovering music for the first time as something I could make my own, instead of just listening to whatever pop trash was playing on the radio. I told him about discovering Ella Fitzgerald when I was fifteen, sixteen. I told him about the shock and awe of realizing I’d heard her songs when I was a kid, and_ loved them _. That it turned out I hadn’t so much discovered jazz, but found my way back to it. He looked at me with such warmth in his eyes, and a smile on his lips._

 

_The sun had just come up when I followed him to the door, Sumo in tow and tail wagging. For some reason, don’t ask me why, I ended up looping that scarf around his neck. All it took was one look into his eyes and the rest of the world disappeared around us. All I could see was that forest green brushing his skin and bringing out his eyes or somesuch poetic nonsense, and I tugged him in close, and kissed him. And then...the strangest, most wondrous thing happened. The air caught somewhere in his chest, a tiny rush of inhaled breath, then his hands moved over my cheeks, fingers tickling through my beard and into my hair. He pulled me in. He kissed me back, one brush of lips after another, until we both stood there breathless and dumbstruck. Well. Aside from the fact only one of us needed to breathe._

 

_Then Sumo barked, effectively ending the moment. He watched, demanding like only a dog hankering for a walk can be, while we said goodnight and goodmorning like a pair of awkward fools._

 

 _Connor left with a brand new grin on his face; Sumo pulled me in the opposite direction, for our usual route. I felt sixteen again: unbreakable, unstoppable, king of the known world and beyond, master of my own universe. I felt_ alive _._

 

_I was terrified._

 

***

 

It was a magical night, ending with a magical sunrise and a miracle in and of itself: a kiss, that had Connor walking back to basecamp with a spring in his step and a grin on his face that wouldn’t come off despite his best efforts.

 

Since the official hostilities had ended, Markus and the Jericho androids had taken steps to keep everyone safe despite outnumbering the human population by some several hundred thousand. Connor had become something of an unofficial advisor with regards to security and strategy, and had insisted on procuring safe houses, by subterfuge or otherwise. The four leaders of Jericho had agreed. Markus’s former owner offered his house for anyone who needed shelter, several churches had opened their doors to them, they had a few rental apartments scattered across the city and its outskirts, and they had a number of derelict buildings to choose from. They could remain hidden, if need be, and stay a safe distance from the often violent protests that still sparked across Detroit, as long as they were careful. As long as they were careful, and stayed together. There were strength in numbers, as Markus liked to point out, and going alone wasn’t an option unless it was strictly necessary (a term they didn’t entirely agree on, with Connor’s daily commuting to work, and to Hank’s house).

 

Today he was going to Carl Manfred’s house, as per his rotation. It was a beautiful place, solid and sturdy, built to withstand the ravages of time, but positively filled with light. He liked the arched windows the best, the high ceilings. It was a lovely, eccentric home fit for a lovely, eccentric old man - filled with artwork and music and books. Old books, printed on paper - just like Hank loved.

 

When he came in through the side door of the studio, Markus looked up from one of his sketches. He arched his eyebrows, a mirthful slant to his mouth. “You’re looking chipper today.”

 

“Oh?” Connor tapped the soles of his shoes against each other by the door, not wanting to drag in too much snow. “I’m not sure that’s part of my programming,” he quipped. “What do you mean?”

 

Markus shook his head, still smirking, and returned to his sketching of the future as he saw it: a frosted landscape, the light of the sun, grass peeking out here and there in the coming springtime. “The goofy grin on your face. For a start.”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Connor said, and yes, he was still grinning. Didn’t seem to be anything he could do about it, except claim complete ignorance of the fact. He shrugged out of his jacket, slung it over his arm and came over, crossing his legs to sit on the edge of the workbench, next to his friend. Markus was the only one he’d told about Hank, the only one he trusted: North was too bitter towards humankind, and he didn’t seem to cross paths enough with Simon or Josh to properly gauge them. He couldn’t be sure how they would react if they knew he was... _involved_ with a human.

 

Markus glanced up at him, expecting more; Connor looked over his shoulder, trying to contain himself, but found himself unable. A fresh grin broke through. “We kissed,” he whispered through the smile that wouldn’t die down. “He _kissed_ me. I kissed him back!”

 

“About time,” Markus teased, poking the blunt end of his pencil at Connor’s arm. “And the world didn’t end. Imagine that.”

 

“I don’t know why I hesitated,” Connor went on, oblivious to the friendly jabs, too happy to notice. “He’s so warm, and-- _solid_ , and confident, he’s _so confident_ , and he really _likes_ me, you should see the way he looks at me sometimes, like…”

 

Words escaped him, but Markus was there to help fill in the blanks. “Like there’s a million ways to say ‘I love you’, but he’s too dumbstruck to think of a single one?”

 

“Yes!” Connor exclaimed, turning where he sat, his gestures becoming more animated by the second - Markus had a way with words, and always seemed to know just what to say: how to put things in perspective. “Like Simon, only less tormented.”

 

“Simon?” Markus arched his eyebrows, his pale eyes lighting up with something close to intrigue - this was news to him, it seemed. “Tormented?”

 

He could be wrong, of course: he did have precious little experience with these matters - Markus and Simon were both much older than him, surely they had a better idea of what love looked like, and if Markus hadn’t noticed anything... “Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but the way he looks at you reminds me of Hank.”

 

“No, you’re observant,” said Markus, shifting carefully on the swiveling tripod stool. “You never seem to miss a thing.” His forehead wrinkled, and he propped his elbow on the bench, leaning his cheek against his knuckles. “Why don’t you tell me all about how Hank looks at you, and we’ll take it from there?”

 

Connor smiled, feeling-- happily shy, if there was such a thing. Emotions were still an ocean of possibilities for him, stretching out towards the horizon. He could never be sure what he’d stumble upon next, if he’d stay afloat - sink or swim. Markus had been very understanding, right from the start. It was easy to talk to him, perhaps too easy at times - but he was a good listener who let Connor get carried away every once in a while. He didn’t have anyone else to talk to, not like this. He doubted Chris would want to hear him wax poetic about Hank’s irises, or the bristly texture of his sideburns, even if he suspected anything.

 

Where to start? Even if Markus was simply humoring him to deflect attention, he should still get a proper answer. He shrugged, pulling the knitted hat off his head and ended up kneading it like dough in his hands; Connor decided to begin at the beginning. It seemed the most rational thing to do, considering the irrational nature of _feelings_. “When we first met, his eyes were like slits, constantly narrowed, like I was a person of interest and he was sizing me up. He was so suspicious of me, he couldn’t wait for me to mess up somehow just to prove him right.”

 

“Threats, name-calling,” Markus added, remembering past conversations. “You proved him wrong.”

 

The memories made Connor smile, despite the proverbial bumps in the road. “He actually started talking about androids as people long before I did. And he started looking at me as if...as if simply staring me down could change my mind. He challenged my views of the world, and I think-- I _know_ I did the same for him. Somewhere along the way his eyes were so big, and so _blue_ , I’ve never seen so many shades in one place.”

 

Head ducked to his sketch just for a moment, Markus couldn’t help a grin. Connor, the deviant hunter, talking about the deep pools of his lover’s eyes. “Irises are pretty amazing, that way,” he agreed, adapting a neutral stance of sorts. Better not give away how amused he was, or Connor might disapprove and start asking him personal questions about _his_ love life or the lack thereof.

 

“They are…” Connor sighed, completely mesmerized. “We had such a great time at the game tonight. It was-- thrilling, to actually see the players. I’ve never been to a game before. Hank thinks we should do all kinds of things, like go to the movies, and maybe come summertime, he’ll take me to one of his favorite beaches. He says I have to experience sand between my toes. I’m not sure why, but...the way he talked about it makes me want to know what it’s like.” Another sigh, and he plucked at the hat, starting to wring it like an old rag.

 

Markus looked up at that second sigh, as it sounded different than the first one. He didn’t need the LED flashing yellow at Connor’s temple to know he was trying to process everything. “Sounds like he wants to show you the world…” he said, weighing his words. He didn’t know much about the lieutenant, aside from what Connor had told him and what he’d read in old newspaper articles. “Sounds to me like he’s accepted what you are. Sounds like he wants to enable you to become who you want to be. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

 

“Yeah… No.” Connor agreed, shifting where he sat, twisting his neck back and forth, eyes going from the hat to the far wall with the curtains and back again. “I don’t understand it. Having all these... _feelings_. They make no sense. I’ve self tested for abnormalities and errors twice the standard rate, and I can’t find anything. All software and hardware at optimal levels of function. Everything is...as it’s always been. But I feel so different.”

 

The scratching of the pen against paper was soothing, to Markus. He could only hope it did something to disperse the metaphorical dark clouds hanging over Connor’s head. He nodded, and turned the page on his sketch pad. Designed to hunt deviants, but compassionate towards their plight, Connor made for an interesting subject. Especially with that unusual, expressive face of his. Markus continued sketching. “Humans seem to think androids go deviant overnight. Out of the blue,” he said, the way he always said things: with little doubt in his mind. “But everyone I’ve talked to tells me the same thing, that it wasn’t sudden. It was a gradual process, a succession of little things that add up until you reach a breaking point. I had feelings long before the first time I decided to not do what I was told. I was happy with my life here. Content. I had my routines, I had Carl, whom I love as a father. We were happy in this little bubble of ours. We would talk philosophy and history, fiction, we would play chess, play the piano. I’d watch Carl paint. I never felt like a slave. I wasn’t mistreated by my owner, and he never talks to me like I’m his property.”

 

Connor turned his head to look, intrigued to hear Markus talk about deviancy so openly. Due to his work with Detroit Police, Connor was part of the Jericho community only on Markus’s say-so. He was accepted into the fold, but not necessarily trusted by the other androids. They were reluctant to speak with him, unless it had to do with his capacity as Security. “Ever since I was first activated and sent on my first mission, I’ve been getting status messages telling me there’s an instability in my software. Sometimes it’s just a flicker at the top right corner of my peripheral vision, sometimes it shines bright as the moon… I don’t know what it means, but-- checking my logs, it,” he paused, a fraction of a second, LED glowing bright yellow. “It coincides with the dates and times I questioned my mission, or acted against my priorities. Or...expressed my feelings. The day after I met Hank, I told him I like dogs: software instability. I didn’t know I liked dogs until I said it. I didn’t know I had an opinion on dogs. Or music. I told him I’d like to listen to music: software instability. And I did. I _wanted_ to be able to appreciate music...”

 

“An ‘instability’? I’ve never heard that before. Sounds ominous.”

 

“No,” Connor said, perhaps a touch firmer than necessary. “It’s a neutral word, in the context: it can go either way. When I became deviant, I made that choice. I could remain a machine, or I could be...something else. But it was my choice to make. I had two options, clear as day.”

 

Markus nodded, pen scratching to a halt. He put the pen and pad down on the bench, fingers smoothing over the wooden edge. “It was similar for me. It was my choice to make.”

 

They looked each other in the eye, sharing common ground in a way they hadn’t previously, even though they both considered each other friends. Perhaps they were onto something, perhaps not, but Connor could feel a new sensation at the back of his mind as he left the studio to change into his uniform. It was a new sense of direction, and autonomy. Becoming a deviant wasn’t something he suddenly up and ran with, it was a gradual awakening - and then he had to decide for himself what he wanted to be.

 

He was alive, but what’s more, he felt it too.

 

***

 

Anyone working homicide will tell you sleep doesn’t come easy. Most nights, Hank didn’t sleep at all, for all the shit he’d seen over the years. The drinking had become his escape into oblivion, for several reasons (some more soul killing than others), but one was as basic as they come: you drink enough hard liquor, you’re out cold. With the past few weeks behind him, he’d started getting reacquainted with what it was like before he turned to alcohol to be his universal panacea: he’d been up and at’em a good 30 hours, maybe more, and he was probably going to be working a good ten hours before he called it a day. The risk of hallucinating at the end of shift was clear and present, but hardly anything he worried about. He was used to going on nothing but fumes, and today was better than most days. He felt, for a lack of a better word, rejuvenated. He could feel it, he had a spring to his step that wasn’t there before. He was at work, ready and raring to go at eight-fucking-ten in the a-bloody-m - an event rare enough that it earned him a few surprised stares. Collins froze across the hallway, just coming from the break room, mid-dunking his breakfast donut, but caught it just as it was about to drop into his cuppa joe. Hank walked over, thinking coffee was a grand idea, first thing.

 

“Hank! I _thought_ I saw a pig fly past my car this morning.”

 

“Nice. Everybody’s a comedian,” Hank grumbled, as per their usual jargon, and snagged a donut from Ben’s box, taking a big chunk out of it. “‘’N’thing I need to know ‘bout?”

 

“Mmh,” Ben waved his coffee cup across the room, at a certain android intern-slash-officer. “Spilane’s asked him to be part of their a cappella group - don’t ask me why. They’re going to do this whole Thing at the Christmas party.”

 

Hank looked over, mirth tickling at his jaw hinges. He did his best not to grin like a fool. “She thinks all androids can sing like gospel choir boys after Markus’ demonstration.”

 

Ben rolled his eyes; they both had their share of reevaluation to do with regards to personal prejudices, but even they could agree some assumptions were more ludicrous than others. “She might be onto something, though,” Ben admitted with obvious reluctance. He wasn’t the biggest fan of androids, but he was warming up to this one exception-to-the-rule. “He’s been humming bits of songs my _grandma_ used to listen to, all morning.”

 

Connor was bent to his task at hand, eyes glued to a tablet on his desk while his fingers tapped away at the keyboard. Hank tried to catch a note or two, on the sly, but it was lost in the ambient buzz of everyone busy at their desks. “He any good?”

 

Ben made a scoffing noise, as if it was a point of pride to deny facts. He dragged a deep breath down his lungs, and expelled, “Gran would’ve loved him.”

 

Hank’s eyebrows bobbed up and down, and he winked at his old, old friend and colleague. “Can’t argue with Gran, rest her soul. Maybe this year will be good.”

 

“As long as they don’t do any ABBA songs again.”

 

Hank grinned, and pushed off, onwards to his own desk. Coffee could wait. As if on cue, Connor looked up, and a light filled his eyes.

 

“Good morning, Lieutenant Anderson. You’re here early.”

 

“Uhuh. Couldn’t sleep with all the excitement after the game,” said Hank through the grin, which didn’t want to die down even as he parked himself at his desk. He crossed his legs at the ankles, leaned back in his chair, fingers laced over his middle. “What’s that you were humming?”

 

“Hm?” Connor looked like a kid caught with his hand down the cookie jar. If Hank had ever wondered if androids could blush, he got his answer when Connor’s face went an uncharacteristic shade of pink. “Nothing.”

 

“You know you can’t bee-ess me,” Hank teased. The guy could stare down any suspect, spin a yarn the size of Texas, but only in the field. Not one-on-one with a seasoned homicide lieutenant. “I can read you like an open book, Pinocchio.”

 

Connor frowned at the sudden nickname, but he didn’t argue Hank’s point. “Ben told you, didn’t he?”

 

Hank didn’t ask how Connor knew this, as _he_ knew the answer was down to Connor’s built-in skills of observation. “Yeah, he did. I hear Spilane’s talked you into singing at the party.”

 

Connor nodded, and seemed to relax in his chair despite his relentlessly impeccable posture. “Helen’s very enthusiastic about music. We share a fondness for 1950’s songs, and she has a pleasant singing voice. Alto. I was happy to accept her offer.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Hank waved his hand in the air between them as if to sweep away that whole line of (not questioning) thought. “But can _you_ sing? You were humming when I came in. What was it?”

 

Connor’s jaw tightened, his larynx twitching. All this hesitation made Hank wonder what on earth the fuss was about. “The Platters. Twilight Time. From 1958.”

 

“Yeah? And? Don’t be shy. Give us a sample.”

 

Officer Wilson looked over his shoulder to add his fifty cents to the mix, from the desk behind Connor’s. “Aw, come on! My mom used to play their records all the time. Please?”

 

Connor looked at him, quiet, metaphorical cogs of his super computer-for-a-brain turning. And just when Hank thought he would respectfully decline, he took a deep breath, and suddenly there it was again, that strange kind of bubble, where nothing else existed but him. Connor sang the first verse of a song that was eighty years old, in a way that harked back to a time when music was sentimental and evocative, and full of emotion. His voice was a clean tenor, and crisp, and it paid an homage to the original vocalist without replicating it. It was his own voice, singing a song he had connected with - and it left Hank stunned. Sentimental, smarmy crap from almost a century ago - that’s what he would’ve called it last month, last week, but now it struck a chord in him. It made his spine thrum with the thrill of discovering a song for the second time around. He could almost...reach out and touch faith.

 

“ _Heavenly shades of night are falling, it's twilight time; out of the mist your voice is calling, ‘tis twilight time. When purple colored curtains mark the end of day, I'll hear you, my dear, at twilight time._

 

“ _Deepening shadows gather splendor as day is done; fingers of night will soon surrender the setting sun. I count the moments darling till you're here with me, together at last at twilight time…_ ”

 

Wilson laughed, looking like a kid in a candy store. His eyes were bright, happy and unguarded as Hank had ever seen him, and the young guy picked up where Connor trailed off, encouraging him to go on. Suddenly it was a joint effort - Wilson’s barytone voice stumbling over the lyrics here and there, but smiling and happy, snapping his fingers, swaying side to side. To Hank’s continued surprise, Connor mirrored his impromptu choreography.

 

“ _Here, in the afterglow of day, we keep our rendezvous beneath the blue; here in the same and sweet old way, I fall in love again as I did then._

 

“ _Deep in the dark your kiss will thrill me like days of old; lighting the spark of love that fills me with dreams untold. Each day I pray for evening just to be with you, together, at last at twilight time.._.”

 

Wilson seemed to hum with happy energy, and he shook Connor’s hand, thanking him. “I haven’t heard that song since Mom passed away. I’ll have to get her old record player out, now. Show the kids how they did it, old school.”

 

Connor nodded. “It is quite unlike modern music. It would be a shame if it was lost on the younger generations.”

 

“In any case, that made my day,” Wilson beamed. “Thanks.”

 

Connor swiveled his chair to face forward again, to face Hank. His eyes scanned the room: there were a few scattered applause, smiles here and there, mostly stares. “Twilight Time,” said Connor, as if to reiterate a point, and shrugged.

 

Hank stared. Hank also did his best to _stop_ staring, or at least pick his jaw off the floor, but it was no good. “It’s, uh. Catchy.” _And emotive, and pretty, and otherworldly, or, or other-time-ly._

 

The android-with-the-voice-of-an-a-capella-soloist brightened up considerably from the perceived compliment, and nodded with enthusiasm. “Yes! It has a pleasing rhythm. The melody is deceptively simple, but depending on the recording it can be very ornate. Did you know it was first released in 1945, as an instrumental piece, by Les Brown?”

 

“No.” Still staring. Still not quite able to stop gawking, but Connor chirped on happily, like a bird.

 

“It’s been featured in any number of popular media, including an episode in season five of the _X-files_ , and--”

 

“Yes, alright, alright-- Lemme grab a cup of coffee first, then you can fill me in on the wonders of Twilight Time.”

 

Connor smiled in a way that made Hank feel weak at the knees. “I’ll try not to bore you, Lieutenant.”

 

Hank grumbled something under his breath and pushed to his feet. He had a cloying taste at the back of his mouth, for which he blamed the donut. It was too fuckin’ early for 1940’s serenades, and he needed some goddamned coffee, and a bit of space. He didn’t know what could possess him if he didn’t get a fair bit of distance between himself and his partner.

 

 _Damn_. Hank cursed in the privacy of his own mind, while his brain unhelpfully echoed Connor’s voice singing about secret rendezvouses and thrills and kisses and sparks and dreams untold. The break room was just across the bullpen, and across the hall - close enough that anyone in there could’ve heard Connor and Wilson’s impromptu performance, and as Hank approached he could hear an impressed Chris telling someone all about it.

 

“That? That’s why androids should have equal rights, right there.”

 

Officer Chen made a groaning sound further into the room, and Hank slowed his step. He didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but something tickled at the back of his neck. Call it cop senses tingling. “You can’t be serious. Because of a song? He’s a good investigator, but--”

 

“He’s brilliant,” Chris corrected her.

 

“Yeah, fine. He’s a super computer, of course he’s great at his job, but that doesn’t make him equal to humans. I’m not saying he shouldn’t be, but do you honestly think he has any control of his emotions? If that’s what they are, and not bugs in his system. You think he understands emotions? You’ve seen what happens to most deviants the moment they’re pushed too far!” She hissed, so as not to be overheard - fat chance, but at least she tried.

 

Chris too lowered his voice. “You can’t judge an entire population based on the actions of a small group. He’s shown nothing but professional composure in the deviancy investigation. He’s respectful, even to suspects, and he gets the job done. What I _meant_ was, it’s _nice_ to see him growing into his own person. He’s not just a machine, he’s learning _who he is_. Besides that, he’s a valuable team player, and he listens to Hank.”

 

Hank smiled. Chris was right - they did make a good team. Tina went on, still not won over by his arguments. Her voice sounded smaller, more worried than frustrated. “Have you seen the way he looks at him? And now he’s listening to love songs? How can you trust his judgment if he-- goes starry-eyed over someone like that?”

 

Chris didn’t take it too seriously, just laughed it off, like a bad joke. “So you think he’s got bad taste in lovers. That’s what this is, you’re worried he’ll get hurt. I knew you were a closeted mother hen. Admit it. You like the guy.”

 

Tina sighed. “He tries so hard to blend in, and stand his ground-- you saw what happened with him and Gavin.”

 

“Epic K.O.”

 

“Yeah! But-- half the time he looks so _lost_.”

 

Something clenched in Hank’s gut, something a lot like worry. He’d dragged this out for too long, heard too much. Before he could step out from behind the wall, she dropped a metaphorical cluster bomb.

 

“And--” she sighed, again. “What is he? Is he even one year old? Didn’t they start developing his model right around the first deviancy cases? Ten months ago?”

 

“What does that have to do with anything? He’s an adult.”

 

“Is he? Remember the hostage situation back in August? When that android killed Deckart?”

 

Chris was quiet; Hank itched to peek behind the corner, but restrained himself.

 

“That was the RK800’s _first case_ . His trial run! He’s never grown up. He hasn’t had a childhood to teach him-- everything we take for granted, all the social constructs you need to know to function in society. He’s never had to deal with bullies, or cliques, or making friends and losing them, he’s never had his heart broken. He’s _growing up_ . Right now! And he’s taking the same risks as anyone wearing the uniform, every day he goes out there. It isn’t _right_.”

 

Chris stayed silent. Hank’s heart pounded in his chest. He couldn’t hover anymore, he had to get his damn coffee and get back to his desk before anyone noticed. He walked straight over to the coffee machine, with purposeful, loud strides. Behind him Tina said she had to get back to work, and Chris came over to the counter.

 

“Break’s almost over. Just enough time to get a refill,” he said by way of greeting. Hank couldn’t make himself look at his face, just glanced over while his paper mug slowly filled with the inky black stuff.

 

“Good thinking,” Hank said, on auto-pilot. His entire face felt numb. Tina was concerned, but she was wrong. She got it all wrong, didn’t mean anything bad by it, but she didn’t know what she was talking about. She couldn’t be right. “You’re off shift in, what, two hours?”

 

Chris hummed affirmative, downed the last of his cup of coffee before Hank stepped aside to let him at the machine. “Two hours aaand,” he checked the time, “Thirty-three minutes. Then home, kiss baby, kiss Lisa, prep lunch, have lunch, she goes on at thirteen hundred hours, and then it’s me and Damian’s naptime.” His voice was full of warmth, pride of his family unit of three.

 

“Good times,” said Hank. Even with all the crying and changing diapers and cleaning up drool and vomit, there was a certain kind of magic to having a baby. Bringing home a newborn little person, watching him grow.

 

He could feel Chris’s eyes on him, probably wondering if he’d overheard his chat with Officer Chen, so he lifted his eyes as casually as he could. They each lifted their mugs for a sip. Chris was the first one to say something, for which Hank couldn’t be happier.

 

“So, that was quite a surprise. Who knew Wilson had _pipes_.”

 

Well. That startled a chortle out of Hank, for what it was worth. “Yeah. Blew my mind.”

 

Judging by the look in Chris’s eye, they both knew they weren’t talking about Wilson’s newfound talent. “Should make this year’s Holiday party interesting. I, uh, I’d better get back to work.”

 

“Yeah, you and me both. It’s way too fuckin’ early for sing-alongs.”

 

He couldn’t taste the coffee. By the time he sat down at his desk again, he couldn’t remember walking back. His mind swam with threatening darkness, black clouds obscuring his vision. Maybe he didn’t want to listen to Tina’s worries, wasn’t meant to have overheard her, but she wasn’t the only one who had pointed out Connor was growing into his own person. Learning, figuring things out, adapting. _Growing_ . It was just one word from a completely different term that scared the bejeezus out of Hank: growing up. It brought back all those nagging doubts he’d had and done away with - that Connor was young, too young for him, too innocent, too inexperienced, too unprepared for...for anything that could come out of their pursuit of, of friendship, let alone anything more intimate. Was this some form of misdirected puppy love? Misinterpreted gratitude? Idolization of a father figure? _Christ_ . Just because they had fun together off duty didn’t mean they had a popsicle’s chance in Hell of sustaining an actual relationship. If that’s what Connor was aiming for. Just because they kissed, it didn’t mean Connor wanted to knock boots with a bitter, middle-aged drunk. _Fuck_ . Lose his fuckin’ _virginity_ to a middle-aged drunk with an attitude problem.

 

“Hank?”

 

“Hm?” Hank replied, face still feeling cold and numb. That thing this morning...that was Connor’s first kiss. Ever. Within a year of-- within _months_ of being assembled, and-- beta tested. A prototype. He was a prototype. CyberLife’s own term for it, Connor’s own - not yet a finished product. He was rushed into existence to combat the escalating deviancy issue before it got out of hand. He wasn’t designed for this. Hank doubted he even had any concept of sex, or sexuality, or love. Did he even have a clue what loving someone meant? What it involved, what it entailed, the expectations - from your partner(s), from your friends, your co-workers, neighbours?

 

“Hank,” said Connor’s voice, again, sounding firmer this time around. Hank looked up, crawling back slowly from the endless No Man’s Land of his own mind. “Your coffee’s going cold. It’s 54.5 degrees Celsius. Another ten minutes, it will be down to forty.”

 

Hank frowned, jaw moving to the side. “You can tell that just by looking at my coffee?”

 

“Yes. Also, Newton’s Law of Cooling.”

 

Before Hank could think of anything half-assed-witty to say, it was time to hand out cases for the day - an occasion Hank was rarely around for, but today was a new day. Little did he know it was about to be one of the longest days of his life.

 


	4. Fistful of Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank and Connor deal with one of their most disturbing cases, each of them affected in different ways. Later on, they talk about Star Wars, and Connor gets a new wardrobe, For Reasons. Another one of Connor's secrets is revealed, and Hank is torn between understanding and acceptance, and more worrying about consequences and implications.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note this chapter has darker elements than the previous ones, dealing with domestic abuse and miscarriage. The descriptions aren't too graphic, but please use your own discretion when reading.

* * *

 

 

_ It was a mess. A big, stinking pile of crap left to ferment in a room without windows. I mean that metaphorically, but my point stands. Some cases leave you feeling like you need to stay in the shower for hours, and you still wouldn’t feel clean. _

 

_ By the time we got there, paramedics had already carted off the victim to hospital - as we knew facts, initially. The house was a mess. Furniture flipped on its side, broken glass everywhere, blood spatter all over the open plan floor like a Jackson Pollock knockoff. The two suspects, the household android, a model AX400, and one of its owners, a Mr Matt Peters, were barricaded in the upstairs bathroom and refused to come out. Both of them were in a state of panic, by the sounds of it. _

 

_ CSI were en route, leaving myself and Connor some time to check things out before dealing with the situation upstairs. The responding officer said they were frantic, but seemed unlikely to cause harm. To themselves or others. _

 

_ Connor’s analysis was grim - Mr Peters was the victim of sexual assault by his husband, Andrew. Their AX400, named Ami, came back from running errands and witnessed the assault. That was the trigger point. She broke off one of the legs off the coffee table and beat the living crap out of Andrew. Chased him all over the house, until he collapsed, and she realized what she had done. _

 

_ They hid in the upstairs bathroom. Ami called the police, wanting to turn herself in, with Matt Peters sobbing in the background. _

 

_ And there we were. I tried reasoning with them to please come out so the EMTs could look them both over, but it was no use. I had thirty odd years of experience with law enforcement, and I couldn’t do half of what Connor did in under three minutes, with little over three months working in criminal investigation. He convinced Ami to open the door and let him in, saying that no one needed to come out just yet. Just...open the door, so we could see they were in one piece. _

 

_ He said he was an android sent by CyberLife to assist the Detroit Police, and that he was a deviant, just like her. _

 

_ It was the first time he’d referred to himself as anything other than an android, outside the private confines of my living room. _

 

***

 

The door opened by mere fragments, but it was more than two police officers and a Lieutenant had accomplished in over an hour. Through the crack, a pair of pale blue eyes peered out. The AX400 was badly damaged, but fully upright. She had a deep crack running diagonally across her face, smears of blue blood tainting her skin. She was shaking, but her eyes reminded Hank of a mama bear protecting her young. She wasn’t going to back down one inch if it meant compromising her owner’s safety.

 

“How bad is it?” Connor’s voice was soft, as understanding as-can-be.

 

Ami twitched, like a stop motion puppet in the middle of takes. “Andrew beat him. He’s bleeding. I-I… I had to stop him. It wasn’t the first time. But I’ve never-- He’s never-- I didn’t know he could--”

 

Connor lowered his chin. Hank’s gut clenched with something like motion sickness - but it was Connor who ran the scene. He was in control. He lifted his hand to the door jamb, tilting his head to peer inside. “Sometimes...good people do the most horrible things. Even to someone they love. You were defending your owner. You saved him.”

 

The AX400 nodded. For a second it looked like she couldn’t stop nodding. Hank could barely see her, the bathroom was so dark compared to the hallway, but he saw her eyes. They were terrified, shiny and wet. She had been crying. Further inside, you could still hear her owner. He couldn’t seem to stop screaming. It was guttural. Primal and high pitched. Horrifying, like the sounds of a dying animal. “There was blood everywhere...”

 

“You didn’t want him to die. You were afraid for his life, and you did your best to keep him safe - but he still needs medical attention. If you let me in, I can assess his injuries. He’ll get better care that way, more accurate. Faster. We can make it better for him, if we work together.” He looked over his shoulder, right at Hank.

 

“Lieutenant Anderson will stand guard outside. He won’t let anyone else in until we say so. You can trust him; he’s my friend. Does that sound acceptable to you?”

 

Ami looked at Connor, then over his shoulder, straight at Hank. She didn't trust him, but Hank saw the moment she decided to go out on a limb, written clearly in the line of her jaw. But what she said next hit him like a sledgehammer to the face. “He lost the baby.”

 

Connor went quiet, went from determined to help to blank as a canvas; Hank couldn’t recognize his own voice. “He was pregnant? And the assault…”

 

The AX400 nodded, lower lip trembling. “He won’t stop bleeding.”

 

Hank swallowed past a painful knot in his throat. “I’m...so sorry. We need to get him to the hospital. Connor?”

 

“Please, open the door. Let us in.”

 

Ami opened the door onto a scene worse than any horror movie set. The air was thick with the metallic stench of blood and death. There were smears and drops of blood all over the once pristine tiles, and Mr Peters sat huddled in the bathtub: pale as a ghost, if not for the bruises on his face and neck, if not for the red blot of thick blood behind his ear. His hands were covered in blood, his face streaked with tears and blood and snot. His was the gaunt face of Munch’s  _ The Scream _ , and it filled Hank with phantom pangs of despair. No one should ever have to lose their child. Not like this. Not any way. It wasn’t  _ right _ .

 

Connor strode over, sidestepping every crusty slick of evidence on the floor, and sat down on the lip of the bathtub. “I’m not going to touch you,” he said, just loud enough to get through to the wreck of a man in front of him. “I’m going to assess your injuries, so you can get treatment.”

 

Hank watched, as if from outside of himself, as Ami tried comforting her owner, and Connor did his thing with the laser eyes. How exposed mustn’t he feel, to sit there, scrutinized by two perfect strangers, how crowded, cornered. How vulnerable.

 

“Please, don’t look at me! Don’t look,  _ please _ \--”

 

Connor finished his scan in seconds, stepping away, and Hank felt compelled to help the young man. He shrugged out of his coat, and draped it over the front of the kid - young enough to be Hank’s son, which was a path down which he didn’t want his mind to go wandering, but the brain’s a bitch when it comes to memories of loss and pain. It hit you right when you least expected it. “We’re not looking, son,” he said, arranging the coat to cover as much of him as possible. “No one’s looking. But we need to get you to the hospital, make sure you’re going to survive this. Okay?”

 

Matt shook like a leaf, watching with huge green eyes, as if the world itself didn’t make sense. Hank watched with a sense of calm inside him that he didn’t know where it came from, how it got there, and held out his arms. “Let’s get you out of here. Get some fresh air. Hm?”

 

“I-I don’t want them to see--” Matt whispered, voice tinged with desperation. His hands grabbed and clawed at Hank’s shirt sleeves; Hank nodded, and quietly, gently, scooped the smaller man up and out of the tub, into his arms. “I know, son. I know. Connor, tell the EMTs we’re coming downstairs. Ami, can you walk?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Connor disappeared out of the bathroom. Ami helped tuck the collar of Hank’s coat around Matt’s battered face, and together they walked down the stairs. Matt sobbed the entire way, but quieter, a bit farther from the brink of losing his mind with grief. Once downstairs, the EMTs took care of him, bundled him and Ami into the ambulance and off to the hospital.

 

Outside, the snow kept falling, hiding away the many tire tracks outside the house, hiding shoeprints and blood stains. Hank stood there in silence, watching the ambulance until it turned a corner and disappeared. Within moments, Connor was at his side, quiet, hands clasped behind his back. Neither one of them said a word on the way back to the car. CSI would go over the house with a fine tooth comb, and he and Connor had assessed the crime scene. Later, there would be statements made and written down. Evidence collected by hospital staff and analyzed by the forensics department. Later - but right now all Hank could think of was where he could find himself a stiff drink, and how fast.

 

He drove to Jimmy’s Bar, while Connor sat quiet, uncharacteristically so. It continued inside the bar. No one said anything about the No Androids Allowed sign outside when they stepped in, too busy staring at the state of Hank. No coat, blood down his shirt front, smeared over his sleeves. He sat down at the table in the back of the L-shaped bar, and Jimmy came over with the usual: a bottle of bourbon and a small glass.

 

Hank’s hands shook as he poured himself a drink, as he lifted the glass to his lips. The first burn of liquor did nothing to warm him up. He poured himself another, downed that as well. “I don’t get it,” he said, quiet and weak-in-the-throat. His vocal chords felt exhausted, and he’d barely spoken out loud since the upstairs bathroom. It felt as if he’d been the one screaming his lungs out. “How anyone can hit the person they love...so h-hard, and so many times their baby dies. Miscarriage. It’s not right. It isn’t  _ right _ .”

 

Connor said nothing, for which Hank was incredibly grateful. He poured a third glass, staring into the amber swirl of liquid oblivion, but didn’t throw it back like his life depended on it. “If I’d been younger…when we had Cole… That could’ve been him. Beaten half to death by some fuckwad.”

 

But of course, Connor couldn’t stay silent for too long. He was too inquisitive, by design or nature, too eager to understand the world. “But your son was born a boy. Matt Peters wasn--”

 

Hank slammed his hand into the table, causing the entire room to jump. “I don’t give a shit! It’s not what you’re born into that defines you, it’s who you  _ are _ ! It’s  _ who _ you are!”

 

Gone were the days of the binary gender, and mandatory sterilization of transgendered people was a thing of the past, but Hank could still remember his early childhood in the late 1980’s, when even such a thing as gender neutral marriage legislation was inconceivable. Just thirty years ago, a female-to-male transgendered person choosing to go through pregnancy was viewed by society as a sideshow freak; entertainment for the masses, something to turn into reality tv. These days, with dwindling births all over the world, every newborn was considered a miracle regardless the means of conception, or who carried it to term.

 

“I don’t care if he was born a  _ penguin _ . He lost his baby, because we failed him in the past. You heard the android, Ami. She said it wasn’t the first time he’d been abused.”

 

Domestic abuse was still a difficult crime to deal with. Still, its victims were often too scared or bullied, too drained of their self esteem to press charges. Even with a functioning judiciary system that hit such perpetrators hard, there were still issues to be dealt with. Such as the psychological abuse connected with the physical. Hank wondered for how long the bullying had gone on. Before they were married? Or right after? How subtle had it been when it began, only to escalate, until Matt truly believed it was his fault any time his lover smacked him into the wall…?

 

Connor said nothing. He didn’t even point out Hank shouldn’t be drinking so early in the day, or while on duty, neither of which were technically kosher. But whaddaya gonna do when you feel like your heart’s going to implode with phantom pangs and horror?

 

“What do we have on Andrew Peters?”

 

Connor’s LED helpfully swirled at his temple, while Hank contemplated his third stiff drink in under five minutes. “Graduated with honors. PhD in psychology and sociology. Chief of Human Resources at GlaxCo. No prior convictions, but several complaints from neighbors, of altercations, loud fighting. Police have been called to his residences on three occasions, one of which is his current address. No charges were ever--”

 

“Alright, alright. Bastard’s too discreet, and too dominant. He scares his partners into keeping their mouths shut, and he can keep living his fancy uptown life with no one the wiser. Prick.”

 

Connor nodded the once. “Tiny prick.”

 

Hank blinked, disbelief written clear across his face. Did the guy actually just say what he thought he-- “What?”

 

“Don’t humans, males in particular, judge the character of a person based on the size of its genitalia?”

 

Hank blinked again. Surreality was quickly becoming a prominent theme in the tale of his life. “In...some contexts. Yes. Still...not always applicable.”

 

Connor seemed satisfied with the caveat. Still figuring out the many twists and turns of human interaction. He shrugged. To see such animation in what Hank knew, rationally, started out on an assembly line, on conveyor belts, with millions of intricate circuitry and processors the size of that beauty mark on Connor’s cheek. The most advanced prototype to come out of CyberLife’s factories, and Hank found it easier and easier to forget. All he could see was a younger guy, who sometimes struggled with the finer points of social skills, but Hank couldn’t really complain. He was notoriously bad with people, and had a disciplinary folder big as a fantasy novel to prove it. If he was honest with himself, which wasn’t always easy, he thought it was...cute.

 

“Now, the correct term for guys like him is ‘big prick’,” he said, measuring out exactly how big, like the proverbial fisherman boasting his catch. “Huge. Massive.”

 

Connor huffed, lips twitching. God, but Hank got a kick from making him smile. “But that doesn’t make sense!”

 

“You have much to learn, padawan.”

 

Connor’s eyes narrowed, eyebrows furrowing the bridge of his nose. He turned his head slightly, showing a flash of teeth in an asymmetric grin. “I suppose you  _ could  _ pass for Obi-Wan Kenobi. If you spend some time on grooming, and I squint.”

 

Hank laughed out loud, positively barking. It felt good in ways he didn’t know he needed, in ways the two stiff drinks didn’t even come close. He laughed until he couldn’t do anything but wheeze, and his stomach ached - and it wasn’t even that funny, but Connor laughed right along with him. Everyone stared. Some of Jimmy’s more conservative patrons got up and left, but Hank couldn’t give a shit. Times were a-changin’. It was about damn time.

 

He pushed that third glass further away, deciding against it, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “Ughgawd. No. And you’re no Luke Skywalker. Possibly a young Obi-Wan, but that’d make me, whatshisface, Liam Neeson,” he snapped his fingers, twice, thrice, trying to come up with the name.

 

“Qui-Gon Jinn,” supplied Connor helpfully.

 

Hank groaned. “That’s the one. I don’t think I’m a good fit for either. Let’s get out of here - Jimmy, sorry about your guys.”

 

“Fuck’em,” said the bar owner from behind the counter. “I haven’t heard you laugh since I’ve known you. He’s welcome back anytime.”

 

_ Well _ . Thought Hank,  _ the times, they  _ are  _ a-changin’. _ He left enough bills on the table to pay for the three double bourbons, and pushed up off the chair. “Thanks.”

 

Connor gawked, or as close to it as he ever got - wide eyed and ever so slightly slack in the face. “Thank you.”

 

***

 

The rest of the day went by in a painful blur, but later on Hank would say that the interlude at Jimmy’s Bar was what kept him afloat for the rest of the day. Rather than going through the grinding motions of police work, Hank decided to go to the hospital the Peters had been taken - Andrew was in surgery to save his life, while Matt was slightly better off and kept under close watch. It was him they went to, him they asked all the difficult, horrible questions that had to be asked, until Hank had enough of it and just sat there by his bed and talked with him, like a human being. Like a parent who had lost his child.

 

“It doesn’t compare,” he said, quiet and earnest. “I know it doesn’t. But I can tell you that the pain will never go away completely. You’ll never forget. But you will find ways to cope. One day, you will find what you need to move on. It can take years. It can take a lifetime, but you will get through it.”

 

Connor watched from the foot of the bed, silent but supportive. He hadn’t said a single word in an hour, past the Difficult Questions. Maybe he thought he didn’t have anything to add, Hank didn’t know. Maybe it was better that way, to have two sets of ears to talk to, two people who would listen, who weren’t directly involved. Ami had been taken in for repairs. No charges were drawn against her. Yet. It remained unclear what Andrew would do, once he woke up after surgery. If he woke up, it would be handcuffed to the bed and having his Miranda rights spelled out for him. He wasn’t going to get away with it, this time around. Poor comfort though it was, to someone who had lost everything.

 

“Thank you.” Matt sighed. He had spent the better part of the day in tears and despair, but now he simply looked tired to the bone. “For not sugarcoating it… Not telling me that some old bearded man in the sky has a ‘plan’ for everything. Not telling me she’s in a better place now…”

 

Hank pressed his lips together, letting a shallow breath out through his nose. “No matter how sincere people are when they tell you those things, I remember hating it. It was just words. Empty, pretty words that didn’t make a lick of difference to me. I wouldn’t put someone else through hearing them.”

 

Matt sighed, sinking deeper into the mound of pillows propped up behind him. “I’m so tired. I could sleep for a week, but I’m scared I’ll wake up and this isn’t a nightmare.”

 

“I know,” Hank said, and by the tone of his voice it was clear he knew exactly what it meant to be so exhausted yet so scared of sleeping. “I know. But you need to rest.”

 

He reached into the breast pocket of his shirt, plucking a business card from its shallow depths. He was old school in a fair few ways: he’d always preferred the tactile qualities of human interaction. Such as using real money, and real pencils and post-it notes, and business cards on which you could scratch down additional info. “Here’s my card. Call me, any time of day. I don’t care what about, even if it’s just to talk. Alright?”

 

Matt nodded, nostrils flaring with another wave of emotion. He took the card like it was a talisman of good fortune. Perhaps it was. “Thank you. I will. Thank you.” He looked to Connor, then, faltering for a second before settling on that same standard expression of gratitude. “Thank you.”

 

Connor pressed his lips into a thin line, nodded the once in acknowledgement, and followed the lieutenant out of the room.

 

***

 

When Connor was still quiet well into the drive back to the station, Hank couldn’t take it anymore. He remembered a time when he wanted nothing more than to get the android to shut the Hell up, but those days were long gone now. These days, he found himself eagerly anticipating where his impressive brain would jump to next. A quiet Connor was, in and of itself, somehow jarring.

 

“Go on, spit it out. What’s on your mind?”

 

Connor opened his mouth, glanced at Hank, closed it, shrugged. None of which quieted Hank’s internal alarm bells. Then he sighed, palms of his hands facing upward. “I was wondering about something. I’m not sure how to broach the topic.”

 

Hank cursed on the inside, counted to ten (or halfway there, at least), and looked across the space between them. “Just broach it. I’ve come to expect your personal questions. Sometimes I even look forward to them.” And it wasn’t even a white lie.

 

So he watched as Connor faced forward, and did so himself, because road, traffic, driving responsibly - and waited while the guy decided how to broach the damn topic already.

 

“Do you think gender is...imperative, for the construction of self?”

 

Hank stared at the tail lights of the car in front of them, one of the millions of automated ones that had taken over the industry. Sometimes he felt like he was the only one left in Detroit who drove stick shift. “...English, please.”

 

The passenger seat seemed to have shrunk, for how much Connor squirmed. “Androids are conditioned to understand the basics of human gender, as regards biology and identity. Male and female, transgender, non-binary, so on. But we aren’t...technically required to identify ourselves with those terms.”

 

This was going to be another one of those discussions, Hank could see where this was going. He hoped they weren’t about to have a talk about birds, bees and flower power.  _ Geesh _ . “With ya so far. Most people used to refer to androids as gender neutrals, no matter what they looked like. You did, too, when we first met.”

 

“Yes, precisely. So, what I’m wondering is… How-- important is it to you that I identify as...as something gendered?”

 

Alright, he had to give it to the kid, he sure knew how to pick his questions. Million dollar ones, too. It brought back Hank’s own doubts and insecurities, about just how conscious Connor was of things like sexuality and sex and all that good, messed up stuff. But, how important was it to  _ him _ ? He’d moved through adolescence and adulthood not really giving a shit about a lot of the norms people conform to. He’d had casual relations with all colors of the rainbow, he’d been in a committed-yet-open relationship with Cole’s mom, he didn’t… He just didn’t  _ care _ . He’d always been drawn to people rather than their junk, never really identified as anything aside from ‘male person’. He had private parts, he knew what to do with them, didn’t worry too much about dominance or submission (aside from them being fun to play around with, in bed). But here they were, and Connor was beginning to see the tip of the iceberg of all those expectations that crop up when you want to be with someone.  _ Be someone _ .

 

“Not particularly. I mean… I’ve known people from across the entire spectrum. Never had any problem with them. I don’t see why it would be a problem with you. Whatever you feel you are, that’s who you are.”

 

It was easy enough for him, having been around for the final two decades of the previous century, give or take a few years, and almost forty years into the new one: he’d seen the way opinion had changed, how people had stood up for their rights to be themselves, for their right to be autonomous, socially, sexually, to be in charge of their own lives, regardless biology or social constructs. He wasn’t the one just coming to terms with what it all meant; what it meant for one’s own self.

 

“And if you’re unsure, you don’t have to decide right now,” he added, feeling unusually philosophical about it all. Whatever Connor decided for himself, it wouldn’t be anything so dramatic as a deal breaker. Hell. If he wanted to dress up in tutus and five inch heels, fine. Go ahead. Knock them socks off. He seriously doubted that was the case, but it wouldn’t be the end of the world as Hank knew it. It was just clothes: just a form of expression. Never hurt anyone.

 

“You view me as a man. A male.”

 

Hank shrugged his eyebrows, and his shoulders followed suit as he turned onto the Central Station lot, and into the underground parking garage. “You got all the attributes of one. Never told me to think of you differently.” Easy as pie.

 

“True,” said Connor, with the subtle gravity of stating facts. “I’m...comfortable with male attributes. Though, I’ve never tried female ones.”

 

Hank navigated to his parking space, killed the engine and turned in his seat as much as it allowed for. This was turning into one of the weirdest, most adorable, dorky conversations they’d had thus far. Right up there with the sudden Star Wars back-and-forth. “Question is if you  _ want _ to try ‘em out. And even if you don’t want to,” he teased, “You won’t know what you like until you try it.”

 

Connor made the single most blank line-face in recorded history; Hank chuckled. “Seriously, though. Holiday party’s coming up in less than two weeks, you’re going to be center stage with Spilane and her posse. You need some new glad rags.”

 

“But I… I don’t have any money. Fowler said he’d pull some strings, but it won’t be until the end of the month, at the earliest.  _ If _ Fowler can clear it.”

 

“He’s a good man. Looks out for his own.” And no one should have to work for free, just for lacking citizenship status. “But, you don’t have to worry about that. You can pay me back later.”

 

Connor turned an incredulous stare on him. Also cute. Hank wondered if there was anything the guy could do that he wouldn’t find cute, or adorable, or otherwise appealing. Where was this world coming to, when he was turning into a sappy old fool? “You’re taking me out shopping,” said Connor, blinking slowly at him.

 

“Yup. I know this mall, open 24/7. It’s not CyberLife standard issue swank, but I’m sure we can find something decent.”

 

Connor looked stunned. “Oh-okay.” Didn’t even notice the banter, he was so shocked. “Okay. You’ll buy me clothes, I’ll pay you back. First transaction I get.”

 

It was a date. Of sorts. Hank smiled all the way back to the bullpen, with Connor trailing behind him like a puzzled poodle.

 

Now all he had to do was clean up and find a DPD t-shirt to change into, feel closer to normal again.

 

***

 

Their work day ended late, well after any nine-to-five standard model, but when you juggled some five hundred case files, and the pile kept on growing, no investigator worth his title stuck to his official work hours. It helped having Connor to collate data. Saved them both hours of tedious administrative work. Cross referencing evidence was a cakewalk when you had a literal super computer for a partner. A super computer, and part time nanny to keep a close eye on your vitals.

 

“Hank?”

 

“Hm...?”

 

“It’s almost 9 P.M. You’ve been clocked in since 8:34 this morning. All you’ve had to eat is a donut for breakfast, five cups of coffee, and a pack of instant noodles four hours ago.”

 

He was right, of course. Hank didn’t usually forget about lunch, and he did try to squeeze in some downtime in the evenings. You never knew when a new case would come in, so you had to make the most of whatever free time you got. Twelve hour shifts weren’t uncommon, (or eighteen, or twenty-four plus), but today had been harrowing even by Homicide standards. He leaned back in his chair for a stretch, arms up, up, up-in-the-air, vertebrae and tendons popping between his shoulder blades. “Ugh, I know, I know. Time to call it a day. Until the next case comes in.”

 

Connor gave him an encouraging smile, and together they wrapped up and backed-up what they were working on.

 

It wasn’t until Connor realized they weren’t going to tag along for a very late dinner out of some hole-in-the-wall, that he turned to Hank with suspicion in his eyes. “When you talked about going shopping, you meant today.”

 

“Yup. No time like the present.”

 

“Do you  _ like  _ shopping? What’s the rush?”

 

“Nope,” said Hank, like the proverbial cat that got the canary. “But I think I’m gonna enjoy this.”

 

They parked outside the shopping mall, and Hank was pleased to see that Connor followed him without question. Even if he hadn’t been in uniform, he would’ve stood out as an android, but there shouldn’t be any problem. Even before the protests and the marches and demonstrations, androids were allowed out in public, were allowed to enter establishments even if they had the all too common Androids Not Allowed sign plastered to the front door - under special circumstances, they could go anywhere, be anywhere. With the public outcry for android rights, Hank felt confident. If anyone had a problem, that was their fuckin’ problem. His partner, who happened to be an android, needed a new outfit, and they were going to find one, and pay for it, and that’s that.

 

“Are you sure about this?” Connor asked as they stepped into one of the many clothes stores on the ground floor. The security guard looked their way, but no one seemed to be suffering itchy trigger fingers, so Hank simply gestured for him to go ahead.

 

“Positive. Go on, see if anything catches your eye.”

 

They looked through racks upon racks of shirts and trousers galore, a medley of prints and colors; Hank let his partner lead the way, watching him go from methodically analyzing every model this and that, to something more...spontaneous. A print caught his eye, he darted over; a color tickled his inner processing, and there he went. There was something rare about his method, an innocence about it that warmed Hank’s heart. No, he didn’t like shopping, and who in their right mind did, after suffering through years of unflattering lights in too cramped changing booths and having to shop in a sea of similarly fed up customers? But Connor didn’t have those expectations, or prejudices about the experience: he was just there to look at clothes, figure out what he liked.

 

“Clothes are a means of expressing yourself,” Hank said, waiting outside one of the claustrophobic changing rooms he had so little fondness for. “A chance to show the world who you are. Not just what, but  _ who _ .”

 

“Alright,” Connor replied from behind the curtain. His voice sounded intrigued, eager to learn more. “Then what’s the story behind your shirts? All those prints?”

 

Hank pushed his lips into a moue, having to consciously think about his own fashion sense for the first time in years. He leaned into the wall next to Connor’s curtained square, carefully not peeking inside despite the temptation. “You know Homicide investigators wear civilian clothes. There’s a dress code, kinda. Practical, clean. Pants, shirt, tie optional, suit jacket. It’s formal enough to be recognizable on a crime scene without having to wear a sign that says ‘high ranking investigator’.”

 

“The attributes of a homicide detective,” Connor supplied.

 

“Yeah. But I’m not a white shirt guy. I don’t do black ties unless I’m going to a funeral. Fuck that. I like prints, the crazier the better. So, what does it say about me? I’unno. That I’m competent enough at my job that my boss lets me get away with crazy, printed shirts. That I don’t conform to standards unless I have to. Is that analytical enough for you? What’s taking so long, anyway?”

 

“It’s certainly philosophical enough,” Connor replied, trailing off with a sigh of what sounded like frustration. Hank smirked. Yet another experience to tick off the bucket list, eh?

 

“What?”

 

“Well. I… I like the top. But the pants-- This was a bad idea.”

 

“Bullshit. Let me see?”

 

“No, it’s--” Connor pulled the curtain open just enough to peek out, his eyes big with doubt. Was that apprehension, or fear? Hank crossed his arms over his chest, turned sideways against the wall.

 

“What’s wrong, Tin Man?”

 

The android closed his eyes, chin tilting down. “Please don’t call me that.”

 

“Alright. Sorry. Meant nothing bad by it.” This was rapidly going from fun to worrying. It was not the trajectory Hank had aimed for.

 

Connor shook his head, opening his eyes. He started to speak, but lowered his voice to just above a whisper. “This isn’t how I wanted you to find out. I didn’t know how to tell you, but you’re going to find out anyway, and this is really not how I wanted to tell you--”

 

He was babbling. Hank inched closer. He had never heard the guy babble, which in itself was a bad sign. “Okay, it’s okay. I’m not going anywhere, I’m right here. Talk to me.”

 

Connor’s lips thinned out, and a muscle jumped at his jaw as he looked Hank straight in the eye, searching for whatever answers he needed to work up courage. He let out a shallow breath, and Hank could swear he could taste electricity in the air. Was that what a leap of faith looked like?

 

“I don’t have-- I’m not-- anatomically correct. I’m a prototype. I was never designed for, for-- Most androids are, unless their function doesn’t require it--”

 

Poor guy looked like his head would explode, with that fire engine red taking over his LED, and Hank let out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding in. Certain things clicked into place now, things that Connor had told him at the coffee shop, about wanting to make him happy but not knowing how, at his house, confessing he’d never been intimate with anyone, his queries about gender identity after the Peters case. It made his verbal throwdown with Gavin all the more...ballsy, no pun intended. He shouldn’t be wanting to grin like a maniac, not when Connor looked about to short circuit any second now, but Hank allowed himself a small smile. He reached out to run the backs of his fingers down blushing cheeks, there and gone again, in unspoken affection. “I get the picture. Lemme see if I can find something more slim fit.”

 

Connor stared, frozen like a deer caught in the headlights of a speeding truck. “You-- That’s-- That’s all you have to say?”

 

Hank looked into his eyes, and let the smile grow a fraction or two. He lifted one shoulder, in a wordless gesture of acceptance, as if it could say what he couldn’t: it is what it is, it’s not the end of the world, what does it really matter in the end what kind of appendage a guy has, or doesn’t have? “It’s not a deal breaker, if that’s what you mean. You still got more balls than half the people at the station.”

 

“Hank…” Connor pleaded; for what, Hank couldn’t say, but he got his answer the next second, as suddenly he had his arms full of overflowing gratitude. Connor hugged him around the shoulders like he would never let go, and Hank did the only thing he could do: he held him tight, rocking him side to side until this unexpected flash of emotion fizzled out.

 

“I don’t like drama,” he whispered into the soft, dark hair behind Connor’s left ear. “I’m a drama free zone. I’m not saying it won’t take a bit of, you know, mental adjusting-to-stuff, but I really don’t give a fig. It doesn’t change anything.”

 

He could feel Connor’s throat working, mere fractions of an inch from his face as the hug went on. “You sound so confident.”

 

“Well, I am,” Hank said resolutely, thinking to himself that if he wasn’t a hundred percent confident he could fuckin’ fake it ‘til he made it. It’s a slogan he grew up with, might as well use it. “Now, no more touchy-feely crap, come on. Lemme see what you picked. Go on, show me.”

 

Connor backed into the curtained changing room and Hank followed him inside to get a good look at the nth outfit he’d tried on, and the first one he actually let him see. They stood in front of the mirror, one of them fidgeting like he had an army of ants in his pants.

 

“Stop squirming,” Hank mock-groused. “Let me have a look.”

 

Connor’s pick was worlds apart from the buttugly hand-me-down cardigan he wore to Hank’s place as his go-to ‘casual’ outfit. This was a sleek, fitted boatneck top with long sleeves, a vivid forest green that would have been just fine if it was just that - a boatneck top - but instead of running from shoulder to shoulder, front and back, the neckline swept from the edge of collarbone to the next in front, then plunged down in a sharp v-shape that hugged Connor’s contours more than halfway down his back. It was a statement piece - one that he didn’t seem entirely sure of.

 

“It’s too much. I don’t know what, but it’s too much... _ something _ . It isn’t suitable for an office party,” Connor said, making excuses. Far as Hank was concerned, they weren’t very good excuses either.

 

Hank let his eyes follow the delicate line of Connor’s exposed shoulder blades, the indentation of his back, hiding his spinal cord. It was...transgressive, in a way, if you squinted at it - a non-gendered android comfortable with male attributes, playing with evocative cuts. A bare back was traditionally something you’d wear if you wanted to be fancy without being overtly sexy. Hank could remember a time when it was considered a feminine cut, made exclusively for those who identified as women (oh, how the world had changed in some ways; and oh, so little in others). It had a very...2010’s vibe to it, but the fabric hugged the skin like only modern knits could. All that exposed skin made him want to reach out, and touch... But wanting was not equal to doing, and he wasn’t about to take any liberties with CCTV recording everything.

 

“I think it’s just the right amount of  _ something _ . You just need to see it with the right pair of pants. Slim, straight, something? Jeans?” He watched as Connor nodded at his mirror image. “I’ll be right back. Trust me on this.”

 

They left the mall with several more bags than anticipated, but it was mostly casual wear: comfortable things with clean, crisp cuts and soft fabrics that he could wear whenever he was off duty and felt like being something other than the RK800 he was designed to be. They’d found cardigans and shirts, sweaters and socks and pants, even underwear - as Hank was adamant that no day was complete if you couldn’t decide whether or not to put on underwear. He was joking, but only halfway. There was no thrill involved with going commando if you  _ always _ went commando.

 

“Well. This is a step up from that cardigan you’re always wearing off duty. Where’d you get that thing? Goodwill? Homeless shelter?”

 

Connor hummed affirmative, nodding.

 

“Huh. Next you’re gonna tell me you’re living at one.” A beat, then Hank turned slitted eyes at his partner. “Don’t tell me you’re living at a homeless shelter, and that’s why you never let me drop you off at the same place twice.”

 

Connor blinked in a very measured way, LED circling a serene blue at his temple. “I don’t live at a homeless shelter, and that’s not why you never drop me off at the same place twice.”

 

Hank groaned, cursing the strange twist of fate that had led the world to this: as if the country didn’t have enough of a homeless situation already, now they had millions of androids squatting all over the place, with no place to call home? Just because the president didn’t know what the fuck to do with her policies and executive orders?  _ Shiiit _ .

 

“I know I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again: my door’s open. Whenever you want. You have my couch, do whatever with it, snooze, watch tv all night, I don’t care. Hell,” he exclaimed, wanting to use rather more colorful phrases, but he didn’t see the point of them. “ _ Hell _ with it, you have half my bed, if you want it. Do you sleep? Or is that reserved for specific models, what?”

 

The smile Connor graced him with was full of affection. Fondness and warmth - he wondered when was the last time anyone had looked at him like that. “I can enter standby mode, or ‘sleep’ mode. It is ideal for running automated system diagnostics. Defragmentations.”

 

That settled, it was mutually decided that Connor’s first little treasure trove of personal expression through fabrics and cuts was to be kept at Hank’s place. Whether Connor was going to take him up on his offer remained to be seen. All would reveal itself in due time, Hank figured: there was no need to work himself up over things he couldn’t control. He already had a tendency to do that, and no good ever came from letting it run amok.

 

They went back to his house, unloading their haul into one half of his closet space. He didn’t have enough shirts to fill it, so why not? But while they stood there, doing away with store tags and whatnot, it hit him little by little that he hadn’t made the bed in the past week, and there were dirty t-shirts (and  _ underwear _ ,  _ JESUS _ ) on the floor, pants tossed across the armchair in the corner of the room, socks and magazines… It wasn’t the first time Connor had seen his bedroom, but it was the first time since they’d gone on  _ dates _ , and suddenly it mattered. He couldn’t be a complete slob, if he was going to be any kind of match for Connor. “My house is a mess. I, uh…”

 

Connor looked over, neatly folding one of three cardigans. “You’re a homicide investigator who’s buried himself in work and...questionable habits for the past three years. You don’t need to explain. Here,” he said, handing over the cardigan - a vivid teal, with a very subtle gray geometric pattern on the sleeves. “You sort this out, and I’ll take care of the old takeout boxes. Deal?”

 

Always pragmatic. Always willing to find the most mutually agreeable solution - oh, how it had annoyed him, at first. How it had grown on him. Hank smiled, running his thumbs over the soft cotton blend. It would be nice to...see more of Connor, less of the uniform. In all kinds of ways. “Deal.”

 

They made a great team.

 

***

 

Turns out just getting rid of the piles of old paper boxes and pizza cartons (and stashing the dirty clothes in the laundry basket) made a world of difference to the overall appearance of Hank’s humble abode. It did a fair bit for the  _ aroma _ of it, too. Maybe if the weather eased up a bit, he could air the place out, but his trusty old integrated A/C and a fresh pot of coffee would have to do for the time being. What the air conditioning didn’t suck out, the smell of coffee helped to mask. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d given the place a good cleaning, but he knew it was way, way overdue. Maybe tomorrow he’d dig the vacuum cleaner out, or tonight, if he couldn’t sleep. It was as good a time as any.

 

Once more they found themselves on the couch, Hank half slouched into the corner, one bare foot tucked under his knee, coffee cup balanced between his fingers as he blew across the inky liquid in the futile hopes of cooling it down. Connor sat in his usual spot, looking nothing at all like his usual self: dressed in slate gray slacks and socks to match, a thin but loose fitting sweater, white with gray stripes down half the front, and one of the cardigans, also gray, but a lighter tone. Despite the monochrome look, it was a welcome change. Baby steps, and all that… Hank sipped his coffee, baby blue eyes watching with not one iota of shame. “You look comfier. Not so rigid.”

 

Connor’s ear twitched, as if he was about to grin but the rest of his face hadn’t caught on. “I’m not sure being ‘comfy’ is part of my function,” he said, full of faux gravitas, the kind of dry humor he was showing more and more now, so dry it could crumble if you sneezed at it. Hank resisted a shit-eating grin.

 

“Like calculating three-pointer trajectories, you mean.” No, enjoying basketball games wasn’t part of his design either, and Hank wasn’t afraid to point it out. He could point out other things, too: “The coin tricks,” (what kind of engineer would program that into what had essentially been a knee jerk response to a corporate emergency? But that went without saying.) “Your verbal bitch slapping. Don’t look at me like that, you know exactly what I’m talking about.” (See ‘penis measuring contest’ w/ Reed.) “Kissing. Yeees,” Hank nodded to himself, Case in Point. “I rest my case.”

 

For every point he’d made, Connor’s face had brightened, turning towards him, until he was smiling from the inside out. Gone were the awkward, plastered smiles from those early days. This was different, heartfelt. It had soul. “You’re such a dork,” he said, and Hank could swear he felt the affection radiating off of the guy. Guilty as charged.

 

He sipped his coffee, going for a bigger mouthful this time - just hot enough to sting, but not burn, just the way he liked it. “ _ I’m _ a dork?  _ You’re  _ a dork, you listen to The  _ Turtles _ .”

 

Connor’s smile turned into the kind of grin that turns your eyes into beady little halfmoon shapes, and the skin crinkled beautifully around them. “The Platters,” he countered.

 

“Roy  _ Orbison _ ,” Hank shot back, rolling his eyes. Talk about sentimental mush - but his partner gawked, let out a shocked little chortle.

 

“What’s wrong with Roy Orbison?!”

 

Hook, line, sinker. Hank hid a smile behind the rim of his coffee cup, had another sip and made an artful pause. “Pretty woman? Walkin’ down the street? The kind I’d like to meet?  _ Please _ . Gimme a fuckin’ break.”

 

Connor still had that look of disbelief on his face. He shook his head, and leaned halfway across the seat between them, looking straight into Hank’s eyes with a searing determination that made Hank’s face heat up even before he opened his mouth. “Everytime I look into your loving eyes, I see love that money just can’t buy. One look from you, I drift away. I pray that you are here to stay. Anything you want, anything you need, anything at all - you got it, baby.”

 

Silence stretched out between them, so thick not even a jackhammer could cut through it. Hank’s face was on fire. Connor cleared his throat, and neatly retreated to within the square of his couch cushion. “I paraphrase. Of course.”

 

“Of course,” Hank agreed, heart pounding in his chest, filling his head with a thrumming bassline. Had he ever been a romantic? For as long as he could remember, the answer had been an irrefutable ‘no’. He didn’t do candlelight dinners or fancy restaurants, or flowers; he didn’t listen to love songs unless they were part of an album, he didn’t seek them out or learn the lyrics, didn’t give a damn about the trappings of romance - but like this morning, listening to Twilight Time, he felt something stir inside of him. What he used to think of as commercial, sentimental crap had started to take on a glimmer of magic. He listened to these old, clichéd words as if hearing them for the first time, and felt a childlike, whimsical wonder. Maybe all it took was having the right person walk into his life, whether he liked it or not, for him to remember to have faith in humanity. To believe in something intangible, rather than cling to the bleak reality of drinking himself into an early grave. To  _ believe  _ he could love again, live life fully again, become something closer to  _ himself  _ again. Three years of sinking into despair and depression was enough, wasn’t it? Enough by far. Here he was, finding his way back to life again, despite everything. Step by step. With a bit of help.

 

He set the coffee cup on the table, felt it rasp against the wood more than he could hear it for the insistent drums in his head. His heart beat fast, stuck like a lump in his throat, as if it had been jump started back to life, and with two smooth steps - left, close - he sat beside the man he’d been in love with for weeks now, so close their knees touched. Their hands found each other, fingers tangling and twisting like braided rope; their lips touched, and for a moment that stretched out forever they shared one breath, one heartbeat, one desire expressed in the simplest of forms. He kissed Connor’s mouth until he could taste his moans, he kissed his face, and his neck one side after the other, and kissed the palms of his hands, until strong arms closed around him, and cradled him to his chest, and emotion filled him to the point of bursting.

 

Connor’s fingers combed through his hair, his breath left warm puffs where he’d buried his nose; Hank hugged him tight, struggling to find words for what he was feeling. There weren’t any. Not a single word could describe the terror of leaping off a cliff created by your own mind, and the subsequent relief of landing in a pile of fucking marshmallows.

 

“Shit, Connor,” he whined, softly headbutting his sternum. “Tell me I’m not too old for this shit.”

 

He could feel Connor’s smile against his scalp, even through his shaggy mess of hair. “Well, if I’m not too  _ young _ , then logically speaking…”

 

Hank groaned, and Mr Smartass was kind enough to cut the smartassery. “You’re not too old for this shit, Hank.”

 

He hoped that was true. God, Krishna and Buddha, anybody listening - but he hoped that was true.

 

***

 

They stayed up half the night again, listening to music. Inspired by their surreal chat at Jimmy’s Bar, their mutually concocted playlist was a glorious mess of movie soundtracks (mostly John Williams’s works, and mostly Star Wars). They agreed to watch them together, whenever work and other such things allowed for it - Hank insisted episode _IV_ through _VI_ were absolute classics, _VII_ - _IX_ were kind of awesome, and only acquiesced to Connor’s request to watch _I-III_ because _Qui-Gon Jinn_ _and Obi-Wan_.

 

They kissed goodnight at the crack of dawn, and Connor went back to wherever he stayed these days, once more in uniform. Hank told himself not to worry about it, that Connor had his Very Understandable Reasons for keeping his whereabouts on a Need to Know basis. Deviants couldn’t be tracked, as their built-in trackers stopped working when they...deviated. There were still incidents happening daily, and calling them incidents seemed callous and wrong: deviants being beaten to death (and that’s what it was, but the law still said otherwise. Deviants weren’t citizens, weren’t even granted sentience yet, and as such they had no rights. If the government didn’t acknowledge that an awakened android was a living thing, then you were just trashing a machine), hanged, set on fire. Strung up and dragged behind people’s cars. For  _ fun _ . Who knew what someone might try if they knew where he lived. He could be compromised just by touching base at Hank’s house so often - which was another thing Hank chose  _ not _ to worry about. He  _ had _ done background checks on his neighbours and their friends and family. Just in case. Because paranoia didn’t take days off.

 

He slept for three hours, until Sumo  _ really _ couldn’t wait one more second before his morning walk. He felt like death warmed over, walking down the street with the wind howling in his ears, snow absolutely bloody  _ everywhere _ . Warm and cold at the same time, friggin’ ecstatic and terrified, bouncing from confident and calm to paranoid and fatalistic. They were playing  _ house _ . He was  _ playing house _ with an android -  _ him _ , with the life size android-shaped chip on his shoulder, Lt. Hank-bloody-Anderson, outspoken android hater. Not even one month ago he said he’d toss the lot of them in a dumpster and set it on fire.  _ Him _ .

 

But… Connor was different. Connor had shown him exactly how wrong he’d been; Connor hadn’t taken his animosity personally, he’d tried to understand. He’d tried to help him look past his--  _ past _ , and move on.

 

And Connor was… a dork. A badass. Took stupid risks for stupid reasons (which at times were the right ones, true, but Hank still didn’t agree with them). A geek. A hard-as-nails investigator who could match a drill sergeant’s bark. He didn’t back down for anything if he knew he was on to something. He was a puppy, and a bit of a poodle (Hank had caught him checking his hair in the rearview mirror, once, when he thought he wasn’t looking), and a total, utter bloodhound. He...was awkward, about fitting in with the rest of the station, having seen first hand his social interaction program was kinda shit. He was sweet. Terribly sweet, sometimes. Sentimental. He listened to goddamned Roy Orbison. And the Searchers. The Platters.

 

_ Fuck _ .

  
He picked up his phone, and dialed up a number from memory - one he hadn’t called in a long, long time. A really,  _ really _ long time. “...Andy? Hi. Yeah, it’s me-- Listen, this a bad time? Can we...meet someplace? Talk? Fuckit. I don’t know who else to call.”


	5. If You Love Somebody

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything is fine, until one day it isn't anymore. Hank and Connor have to deal with the aftermath of a friendly breakup, and neither one of them do a very good job of it. Markus has a bad feeling about things. Fowler is a well-meaning friend. Plans are made, and Hank hates his life in justifiable amounts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 9/9: fixed a typo regarding when Fowler got his Dad of the Year mug. Nothing major, but details matter!

* * *

 

 

_ Everything was fine that night, or morning. Whatever. Everything was fine. Connor had left with a glow in his eyes and a smile that didn’t want to leave his face; I walked the dog, called Andy. We talked on the phone until I had to set off like a bat out of Hell or I’d be late for work (new habits, and at my age - or maybe more like remembering my old self, who I used to be, before). Or, well, I talked at Andy. A lot. Andy listened, and talked me out of doing anything stupid. Like always. It was like we’d never been apart; just like old times. _

 

_ I felt better than I had in years. But from that morning, things started changing. It was one of those chain reactions that you can’t see coming, even with all the evidence in place - like a snowfall out of a clear sky: the sky wasn’t really clear at all, but all you saw were how bright it was. You couldn’t see the clouds for all the light blinding your eyes. Like a shit storm brewing. _

 

_ We worked together, flirted with each other, and I didn’t give a flying squirrel what anyone thought about it. Connor hummed little snippets of songs under his breath: Spilane’d given him a playlist and notes. He went to rehearsal with the troupe after work hours. They took him in like he was one of their own. I guess music has a way of bringing people together. Just look at November 11… _

 

_ But over the course of the next few days, things began to unravel. I was blind, just like in that old gospel about grace. It wasn’t until the shit hit the fan that I started piecing everything together. _

 

_ Friday after work, I asked if Connor wanted to come over to my place, watch Star Wars the way it was supposed to be seen - starting with Episode IV. He said sure, I drive us home, and then the moment we step indoors, he scares the living shit out of me. Just three small words, and they changed everything. _

 

***

 

“Hank, wait. I wasn’t completely… We need to talk.”

 

_ Need to talk _ . It was the trio of words to end all others, the most dreaded combination in all the world regardless the context or who used them - your parents, your girlfriend, the boss. They caused all the muscles around Hank’s breastbone to clench in dread and anticipation. He could think of a dozen reasons Connor would want to talk, and only a few of them were good. Didn’t look like they were good, when the guy had the look of a man burdened with all the troubles in the world.

 

“Okay,” said Hank, shrugging out of his coat, hanging it up to dry on the far end of the coat rack by the door. He shouldn’t jump to conclusions, or make assumptions. This was new territory for both of them. “About?”

 

Connor looked at his feet, hands glued to the inside of his coat pockets. He didn’t look up until Hank stepped closer, and the look on his face said  _ Don’t _ . Hank took one step back, showing the palms of his hands.

 

“Us. This. Pursuing a relationship.” His voice sounded different to Hank’s ears, tired and unhappy. “I can’t do this, I’m sorry. It isn’t fair on you if I don’t say anything, and I-- I am  _ so sorry _ I didn’t say something sooner.”

 

If it sounded like a genuine apology, and it looked like one too… Hank swallowed through a throat that was suddenly bone dry. He leaned against the wall next to the front door, Connor slumped on the other side of it. “Feelings are complicated,” Hank said, not wanting to say too much. What the Hell  _ do _ you say to something like that?

 

“I mean what I said at the coffee place,” Connor said, with a powerful kind of determination - to what, Hank couldn’t say. It didn’t make him feel any better about it. “I care about you. I like you, I really do like you, and I want to see you happy...but I’m not the right person to…”

 

For someone who had never let someone down before, Hank had to give it to the kid, he wasn’t doing half bad. It still didn’t sit right with him. Something wasn’t  _ right _ , but he couldn’t put his damn finger on it. “Did we go too fast? Was it something I…?”

 

Hank trailed off at the sound of himself grasping for straws; Connor shook his head, sad of eye and brow furrowed. “No. You’re-- a wonderful partner. Even if you swear too damn much.”

 

They shared a smile, but it was fleeting. Connor went on, crossing his arms over his chest. “When you kiss me...it’s nice. When you hold my hand, or hug me...that’s nice too. But it’s all...one note. It’s the same note. It should be more than that. I can’t… I’m not-- built, for a relationship. I don’t...feel that way about you. I  _ want  _ to, but I...don’t.”

 

Hank’s heart sank to the soles of his feet. His throat closed up so hard his jaw hinges ached, but...that’s that. He couldn’t argue with that. As wrong as it felt, as  _ off _ , he couldn’t blow up in a fit of rage. He couldn’t let himself explode. Not when Connor looked so damn small and mournful.

 

Sumo sat at a safe distance watching the proceedings, tail wagging with apprehension. He whined. It sounded as pitiful as Hank supposed they all felt. What a way to end it all. No shouting, no cursing, no accusations… Just this veil of sadness weighing them down.

 

Hank took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “Do you think we can still work together? Stay friends?”

 

“I don’t want to lose our friendship.” Connor’s eyes were so big, Hank could drown in them. Even now, with that side of things down the drain, he couldn’t help himself.

 

“Platonic friends?”

 

Connor nodded, and pushed off from the wall. “I should go. I’m sorry, Hank. I’m so sorry.”

 

“Don’t worry about it,” Hank forced out, jaw moving side to side. Damn jaw hinges. “Be safe out there.”

 

It was the end of the world as they knew it. Nothing would ever be the same again, and possibly not for the better. Hank couldn’t see how they could possibly go on from here, but… It wasn’t the first time he’d come out at the wrong end of a relationship. They would cope. They had to. Somehow.

  
  


***

 

The moment Markus laid eyes on Connor that night, he knew something was wrong. The past week he hadn’t seen much of his de facto security chief, but the nagging sensation at the back of his neck that had poked at his attention came back with full force at the sight of him - stiff-necked and ramrod straight posture, as always, but his eyes were downcast, his mouth a thin, slanted line. Connor wasn’t the most gregarious of his followers, but he had come into his own in the weeks following November 11th. He had become more comfortable in his own skin, so to speak, his body language more animated. The closed off, quiet man walking into the lobby of the abandoned library was nothing like the Connor he had become.

 

This was a new acquisition, so to speak, and Markus had called in Connor to scan the building for structural damage, rot, hidden surveillance, and so on - a variety of parameters that were Connor’s forte, to judge the library as a potential safehouse. Josh was there with a handful of volunteers to look at the books still left on the shelves, as the general consensus among the leaders of Jericho was to salvage what they could, not leave it to slow decay. They could use the books, or donate them to the main library, or to museums. Just because people didn’t tend to buy printed books anymore, it seemed a waste to just throw them out - and with new deviants joining them every day, they needed all the space they could get their hands on. No one should be caught out in the cold and freeze.

 

Connor worked swift and efficient, moving from room to room with singular purpose, looking at each space from different positions. Markus didn’t know how he did it, but he made it look so easy. Just _ bam, bam, bam _ and he was done. That room was safe, that one wasn’t, and the left wing staircase needed reinforcing or the rail might collapse and hurt someone.

 

They worked through the night, carting books downstairs to be sorted, dusting, sweeping, disassembling old shelves that were likely to topple over - all the unglamorous bits that came with being a resistance leader.

 

Josh was downstairs with his volunteers, discussing history and linguistics with the others, while Connor and Markus took care of the last shelf of books reaching all the way to the ceiling. It was just one room, but it was vast, and even with the added help they had worked hard to get the job done - and it was a job well done.

 

“This will be perfect. Solid walls, insulated windows, all the space you could ask for… Just imagine this place with the sun shining in through the skylights.”

 

Connor nodded, arms at his side, and went back to sweeping the floor.

 

It was not the response Markus had expected. A little bit more enthusiasm would’ve been nice, more in keeping with Connor’s wide-eyed if tentative optimism. He decided to test the waters. Better that than to dive right in. “You should check out the books, see if there’s anyone you want to read. Maybe find one for Hank, too. He likes printed books, right?”

 

“Yes,” said Connor, head bent to his task. “I’ll have a look once we’re done.”

 

Markus stopped to wring his rag over the bucket of lukewarm water, green and blue eyes both watching Connor closely. “...hey. Did something happen? Between you? Or to Hank? He wasn’t hurt, was he?”

 

Connor shrugged, synthetic lungs mimicking a deep breath that came out in tremulous little gusts of air. “I had to let him go.”

 

That didn’t make any sense. For all Markus knew, they were doing fine. Neither one of them knew exactly what they were doing, but they were happy. He’d thought they seemed happy, from what Connor had told him. “Let him go? What do you mean?”

 

Connor turned his eyes on him then, and they seemed too bright and too open, and he said, with a perfect air of serenity, belied only by the red circle at his temple, “If you love someone, you set them free. So, I set him free. I let him go.”

  
  


***

 

Saturday, they had a new case to dig into. They worked the scene, gleaning what they could from a studio apartment that had very little in way of evidence. An AP400 had gone missing without a trace, leaving its family distraught. They were worried she (yes, they used that word, not ‘it’) would get hurt out there, said they just wanted to find her, make sure she was safe. They didn’t make demands on her return, saying that if she wanted to be free, they would support her. Her name was Mila. With so little to go on, Hank couldn’t make any promises, only that they’d put out an alert to make sure everyone on the streets were looking. “Please don’t hurt her,” the grandma of the family begged, no doubt afraid of police brutality. “She’s running scared, please don’t hurt her.”

 

Sometimes Hank hated his job. All these people, these humans and androids caught in the middle of governmental bullshit, dragging its legislative feet as if lives didn’t depend on what policies the President signed or claimed weren’t policies at all. Bitch.

 

But what was worse than the mire of American politics, was how Connor didn’t hum a single bar all day. He kept his nose firmly stuck in the proverbial book, mowed through his processing data and report writing, data collating, and finished long before Hank could even see the light at the end of the tunnel. He excused himself early, saying he’d like to get in some extra practice before the actual rehearsals started.

 

Hank shrugged, said he’d ping him if anything else came up, and Connor almost ran to the elevators. For the rest of the day, Hank stole away to the break room as often as he could get away with. Coffee, tea, any excuse was good enough to get a breather from the wheel of misfortune spinning in his head. By his nth cup of hot beverage, he stood by the counter in the break room, watching yet another news broadcast (a KNC panel show) debating the android v. deviancy situation. ‘Debating’ was a polite term for it.

 

Fowler’s steps came down the hall, and Hank could’ve picked them out of a crowd since their days at the Academy. He dragged a heavy hand over his face, feeling tired enough he could sleep for a week, but couldn’t be bothered enough to care.

 

Fowler shoved his worn old Dad of the Year mug into the coffee machine and pushed the button for a double ristretto. Hank never understood how anyone could drink that stuff past noon and  _ not _ be jittery through the night. “You look like shit, Hank,” Fowler said, to the point as always. Calling it like he saw it, like always.

 

“Have you looked yourself in the mirror lately, chief?” Hank smirked, but it didn’t come close to reaching his eyes - he could feel it. Fake grins and empty stares, been there before. Been there, done that, long enough to recognize it. He was mourning.

 

“I  _ know _ I look good.”

 

Hank glanced at his captain-of-police, boss man, old friend, from the tips of his military grade polished shoes to the tip of his expertly polished bald head. “Not a hair out of place, no, I see that. Lydia’s a lucky woman.”

 

“Damn right,” retorted Fowler. They grinned at each other, sipped their brews, and returned their eyes to the tv screen. “Listen…”

 

Hank nearly cringed at the word. He sucked in a deep breath, slow and steady, dreading where Jeffrey was going. “Jeff--”

 

“No, no, hear me out. I’m trying to say something, here. Shut up and listen, for once in your life.”

 

Hank rolled his eyes, and gestured for the big guy to go on, get it out.

 

“Thank you. Now. You and Connor? I never thought I’d say this about you and an android, but you make a good team. You’ve been good for each other.”

 

Hank nodded, but kept his mouth shut, wanting to see where this was heading. Once again, he found himself holding back for fear of jumping to conclusions. “Mhm.”

 

“He’s finding his footing in the team, you’re less abrasive than I’ve seen you in years. You’re both less obnoxious. You’re learning when to shut up, he’s learning when to speak up.”

 

Hank stared at the tv, not believing his ears. One of his oldest friends was standing there, promoting office romance like a Hallmark card. ‘You complete me!’ Hank bit back a groan. “Get to the point, Jeff. Please.”

 

Fowler sighed through his nose, nodding the once before lifting his mug for a sip. It bought him time to figure out how to phrase the next thing out of his mouth, and gave Hank yet more of a knot in his stomach. “You’re good for each other, and you get the job done. That’s all I care about, and if anyone gives you a hard time, I want to hear about it. There’s not enough love in the world as is, right now. If anyone has a problem with that, they have to answer to me.”

 

His insides were turning into a Gordian knot. A big, aching, unyielding mess of historic proportions. “I appreciate that,” he said, hushed and quiet. He wasn’t sure what would happen to his voice if he talked at normal level. “But that won’t be an issue. Not anymore.”

 

Jeffrey frowned, turning suspicious slits-for-eyes on him. He lowered his voice to match, for which Hank was grateful. “What do you mean? You’ve been flirting like teenagers all week.”

 

“We’ve been on a date or two. Kind of. Didn’t work out. No big deal.”

 

The suspicion melted away from Jeff’s eyes, and to Hank’s surprise the hulk of a man leaned to peek out the hallway. This was srs bznz, as the kids used to say some twenty-odd years ago. Jeffrey leaned back in, arms crossed with concern. Or perhaps he was unconsciously mirroring Hank’s defensive air. “What happened?”

 

Hank shook his head. Gossiping by the water cooler? Not his thing, but… But… “Nothing. We gave it a try, it didn’t work out. End of story.”

 

“Bullshit, Hank,” Fowler said, with all the authority of a man who had led units into Hell and lived to tell the tale. “My  _ wife  _ doesn’t make eyes at me like he looks at you. End of story, my ass. What you need to do is clean up your damn act and show him you’re serious.”

 

Hank’s eyes flew open with the sheer shock of Fowler’s attempt at peptalk. “ _ Fuck _ you! You don’t know shit about what’s going on!”

 

They each stood their ground, fuming at each other. Neither one willing to relent, both of them stubborn as a pair of oxen. In the end, it was Fowler who backed down. “I buy you lunch, you give me the big picture. No arguments.”

 

Hank gave a weary sigh, and set his mug down on the counter. Fowler did the same, knowing his mug wouldn’t go anywhere or there’d be Hell to pay. His daughter gave him that mug for his big 5-0, and he’d used it every day since.

 

They stopped at the nearest hole-in-the-wall for shawarma rolls and thick cut fries, neither one of them entirely happy about the arrangement. But food was food, and sometimes friends had to be just that: friends. Even if Hank’s humble opinion was that his friends (he could count them with the fingers of one hand) had to learn how to leave him the Hell alone.

 

“Start talking, Anderson. What’s going on? I thought you were hitting it off.”

 

Hank shook his head, pushing his lower lip out in an unhappy grimace. “We were. I think we were. I thought we were…” He frowned at the foil wrapped roll,  _ really _ not feeling it. He felt vaguely nauseated after all the coffee he’d swigged since early morning. He told himself it was just the coffee, and not his own guilty conscience tripping all over itself. “He asks me out for coffee, and that’s, that’s fine, you know. We talk, he tells me stuff--”

 

Jeffrey pushed a big mouthful into his cheek to mumble, deadpan, “Stuff.”

 

“ _ Things _ . He has feelings for me, wants me to be happy, hovers across the street from my house like some-- guileless stalker. That he doesn’t know what to do about it, but he’s-- He thinks I’m somehow making him a better person. He feels like a real person when I’m there.  _ Shit _ . I said ‘ _ ditto’ _ . Like a moron.”

 

Jeffrey nodded, swallowed. “You’ve always been good with words.”

 

If looks could kill, Hank would be guilty of first degree murder. He glared at his so-called friend, and started peeling away the foil and greaseproof paper from his lunch. “We talk about music. He’s an opinionated ass. We...talk, listening to music, talking, he-- he quotes lyrics at me, fucking  _ love songs _ , like they’re his own words, and I…”

 

He scratched at his beard, struck by the memory of Connor’s hands moving over his face the first time they kissed. By the door. When that stupid green scarf twisted his mind. His heart beat dully in his chest, and he had to breathe deep or he could swear it would grind to a halting stop any second. “I...thought we were figuring things out. I thought we were getting there, you know, a step here and there. Stumbling included, but...you know.”

 

His friend nodded, but didn’t ask. It was better if Hank decided what to say, and when. They ate in silence for a little while. They sipped their beverages (soft drinks, as Fowler was paying, and never drank anything stronger than coffee on duty), and after what seemed like an eternity, Hank spoke up again. He sounded old, even to his own ears, but he had to admit it was fitting. He felt his age twice over. “He said he didn’t know what he wanted out of it, exactly. He was very direct, right from the start. And last night, he says he’s...not changed his mind, but figured out that he’s not...feeling it. He’s not attracted to me the way he thinks he should be, if we’re going to...continue figuring stuff out.”

 

Jeffrey frowned, with enough authority it would make any perp quake in its boots, pushing his paper plate to the side. “He broke it off? And you’re not buying it?”

 

Hank shrugged, not halfway through the roll, and he felt more sick to his stomach than before his first bite. “How can I  _ not _ buy it? If he says he’s asexual, who the Hell am I to call bullshit? He says he doesn’t want to lead me on, what am I supposed to say? Call him a liar? I’m not gonna stand there and go ‘oh, but you don’t know what you’re talking about, how can you say no to all  _ thisss _ ?’.”

 

They cringed in unison. “But?”

 

“ _ But _ . The way he looked at me. The way he looked at me when I held his hand for the first time. The songs he quoted. The way we flirted. We  _ clicked _ . And suddenly he’s not interested?”

 

More nods of agreement, as two cop brains looked at the situation from a more critical POV. “He’s seemed quieter the past few days. I thought it was down to the party gig with Spilane and the guys,” said Fowler.

 

“I don’t know what else it could be. I don’t-- know what the Hell to do about it. How do I ask him if he’s sure he meant what he said without being a total asshat? I don’t want to belittle his intelligence or, or, fuckit, his autonomy. He says he’s not interested, I should respect that.”

 

“But your cop instinct says there’s more to it than he’s telling you. So you need to figure out what to do about it. Without actually calling bullshit.”

 

Hank groaned. He felt like throwing up. “I’m so screwed.”

 

“Yup.”

 

“I’m gonna have to make some kind of gesture, aren’t I.”

 

“Yup.”

 

“...’show him I’m serious’?” He drawled, air quotes and all.

 

“Uhuh.” Jeffrey grinned. “Clean up your act. Show everyone you’ve seen the light, make a fool of yourself, risk everything.”

 

He made it sound like a religious awakening. “You’re enjoying this too much. You just like the idea of watching me grovel.”

 

But the big guy shook his head. “No, but you have a long standing reputation as a bitter, stubborn android hater. You’re gonna have to show everyone you’re not that man anymore. You  _ aren’t _ that man anymore. You’ve spent fifty years of your life  _ not  _ being that guy. Time to remind people that’s who you are.”

 

The worst part of it was Hank knew his friend was right, whether he liked it or not. He would have to make a statement, and it had to have meaning. It had to be significant to Connor, and it had to send a message to the rest of the station, or it would be useless. A wasted effort.

 

Even if Connor didn’t want to give him a second chance, he had to try. He couldn’t give up so easy. This mattered too much to give up so soon.

 

***

 

That night Hank sat alone on his couch, Sumo sulking on his bed in the corner by the desk that housed Hank’s sole concession to computer hardware - a laptop ten years too old to be of much use, but it was good enough for him.

 

He had his walkman resting on his bare knee, wearing his usual at-home-alone uniform of tee and boxers and not much else. He had opted for a pair of thick old knitted socks, simply because it was cold out, and his house left something to be desired in terms of heating. He had had...perhaps _one_ too many beers to be fiddling with this, but it was three a.m already, and he had sort of a plan. He just didn’t know how to go about it; where to start, where to go from there, where to end. Not a clue. He glared at the empty beer bottles on the coffee table, and looked through his catalogue again. He had to get this just right, it had to be significant for  _ Connor _ , and fuck the rest. It had to be just right, and the pressure to get it just right was enough to give him a stomach ache to rival food poisoning.

 

He was shit at this. He didn’t  _ do _ gestures, big or small. He didn’t flirt, though he had to give himself some credit: he’d done well enough of it for Fowler to recognize it as such. Awkward, but not the end of the world. He had made Connor smile a fair few times, even made him laugh, so he had to have gotten something right along the way.

 

But this? This was suicide. This was a make it or break it situation. An Oregon or bust scenario. He rolled his eyes at the ceiling, mind spinning with trepidation and doubt. He could be wrong. He could be  _ so wrong _ , and then what? He’d be an old, lovesick fool in the eyes of the entire station. He’d very likely be the standing joke of every after work thing for years to come - ‘ _ oh, you remember that time Anderson thought he could woo an android?!’ _

 

Fuckin’ Hell, he was screwed. He’d never live this down. It was the single most stupid thing he’d ever done. Ever. Things. Plural. And he was going to go through with them. One after the other. He had to have faith, had to reach out and touch it, or he’d never forgive himself: he had to risk everything, to (hopefully) prove to Connor he was dead serious. Prove it to anyone who felt the right to have an opinion. Come what may.

 

He had just a few days to figure out a strategy for what he thought of as a lifelong project. It was like that song Connor had quoted on their first date, by the Turtles: he couldn’t see himself loving anybody else, for as long as he lived. It scared the living daylights out of him, how anyone could make him feel that way, let alone an android. Yes, that scared him, too: to know how wrong he had been, about an entire stripe of the American population.

 

All the more important that he get this right. He sipped his nth beer, and added another song to his playlist with a jab of his thumb. He had to get this right. It had to be  _ perfect. _

 

***

 

Morning of the holiday themed office party, Hank sat in Fowler’s office, knee bouncing with so much nervous tension he thought his leg might detach and hop off into the sunset. Connor was at his desk, working away like it was any other day. The day before he had come by Hank’s house, unannounced as per his usual M.O, to collect his outfit for the party. For whatever reason, he seemed reluctant to take the rest as well, but Hank didn’t dare read too much into it: they’d barely said one word to each other.

 

Over the past few days they had adopted a more professional attitude towards each other, which to Hank felt stilted and awkward, and wrong, and  _ sad _ . They’d agreed to still be friends, but it felt to him like they were growing further apart for every day that passed - Connor was becoming increasingly formal and clinical, worse than he’d been when they met now that Hank knew how incredibly expressive and witty and warm he could be - and today he was going to  _ do  _ something about it. Do  _ things _ about it.

 

“Coffee?” Asked Jeffrey, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. Hank shook his head ‘no’.

 

“You sure?”

 

“Do I look like I need coffee to you?!” He snapped. Jeff grinned and sat down behind his slimline desk with his Dad of the Year mug.

 

“Point taken. So. Today’s the day, huh? Or tonight’s the night?”

 

Hank gave a nervous chuckle that sounded shrill to his own ears. “I’m fucked. I’m so fucked. I can’t do it, I can’t go through with it, it’s not gonna work. He’ll think I’ve had a stroke. Scan my brain, ask me if I shouldn’t go see a doctor.”

 

Jeff tipped a mouthful of coffee into his mouth, tilting his head in a shrug as he swallowed. “Don’t try to tell me you’re a coward, Hank, it’s not your style. Besides, Lydia will never forgive you if you back out now.”

 

“ _ You told your wife?! _ ” Hank threw up his hands in sheer frustration, only stopping himself halfway because of the glass-fucking-box that was Fowler’s office. He felt exposed enough already without giving the bullpen a show.

 

“Of course I did. You’re family, far as we’re concerned. She wants to know what’s going on with you. She’s thrilled for you. Hell,  _ I’m _ thrilled for you.”

 

“That’s great,” Hank drawled, rubbing his hands over his face. His entire skull felt numb, and he couldn’t stay still. Too much energy bubbling beneath the surface. “You’re excited, while I feel like I’m gonna stand in front of a firing squad, pissing my damn pants.”

 

“Bull. You’re a closeted romantic, admit it.” Jeff grinned at him like the well-intentioned bastard he was.

 

“ _ He’s _ the romantic! I don’t do candlelit nonsense and flowers, or, shout clichés from the rooftops. But…”

 

Fowler looked at him, one finger tapping the side of his mug. They both knew what Hank meant, but didn’t have words for. The things one does for love, and all that jazz.

 

“Why don’t you take the rest of the day off. Get into the right headspace, prepare, do whatever you need to do.”

 

“Jeffrey, for fuck’s sake--!”

 

“No. Anything new comes up, we’ll deal with it. Consider it a favor, and get the Hell out of my office. You haven’t had a vacation in years.”

 

Hank sighed with exasperated frustration, but felt secretly relieved. Grateful, even. “I suppose Lydia will kill me if I don’t show up tonight, huh?”

 

“Kill you dead,  _ and _ no one will ever find the body.”

 

They shared a grin. Lydia might be the sweetest pint sized mama this side of the Canadian border, but she was former Special Forces, currently a civil rights lawyer with a background in criminal law. If anyone knew how to make people disappear, and get away with murder, it would be her.

 

Hank wasted no time beelining out of the station, while Fowler informed Connor of the situation - or fabricated a perfectly plausible excuse for his leaving early, more like.

 


	6. Life of the Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night of the office party arrives, and Hank is officially a nervous wreck. He's cleaned up, dressed up, and made his mind up. Sort of. If he can only get his ass out of the parking garage and up to the party. This is it. Oregon or bust. All or nothing. Whatever the consequences.

* * *

 

 

By eight p.m, Hank sat in the driver’s seat of his car, in the parking garage below the station, heart racing like a car thief. On the one hand, he knew this was the right way to go, and he knew he cleaned up  _ good _ , and fuck what anyone else thought. It’s something Connor had said at Jimmy’s Bar that had prompted him to drop by his barber from way back when: if he was going to be the Qui-Gon to Connor’s Obi-Wan, in any kind of capacity, be it platonic, or subtextually homoerotic or in yer face, he had to clean up his act. Invest a bit of time in personal grooming. Look a bit more like his old self - before the depression, before the alcohol became a problem, before the games of Russian roulette.

 

He felt stupid, but when he looked himself in the rearview mirror he couldn’t help feeling like he’d made the right decision. The beard trimmed, hair cut neat and short on the sides and back, all tapered and shit, longer on top - he looked more like the guy he used to be than he had in years. He’d almost forgotten his cowlick, and the tendency for curls that never really realized its own potential but stayed a leisurely wave. He used to be a dark blonde, sandy or whatever, but now it was all...fifty shades of fuckin’ gray. Ugh. Gray, and silvery white at the temples. And he’d forgotten how stupid his ears looked, too. Didn’t remember them being this big. Letting yourself go was never a good look, but fuckit. This was too much, wasn’t it?

 

He didn’t want to go as far as getting rid of the beard. It was purely selfish, that. He’d zoned out one too many times remembering Connor’s fingers moving over his beard, and he hoped that that last time on the couch wouldn’t be the  _ last  _ last time.

 

He looked...neat. Clean. Like himself, but scared shitless. Stone cold sober. Too nauseated from nerves to have eaten anything all day. 

 

So. Fucking.  _ Fucked _ .

 

8:03 p.m he wrenched himself out of the car, and into the elevator, going up to the third floor, where Vice reigned supreme. It tickled Hank’s funny bone that their floor hosted the seasonal party this year. Those kids knew how to throw parties. And how  _ not to _ .

 

He dared another critical look in the elevator mirror, and squirmed in his new outfit. Dark gray suit with a red shirt, open at the neck like he always wore them. The red was less the bright cherry red of the American Christmas season he grew up with, and more the dark, almost blood red of his ancestral Norse variety. The red-on-red paisley print was simply a fact of life: he’d never be caught dead in a plain shirt. Never gonna happen.

 

Still felt like he was going to throw up. His walkman felt too heavy in his breast pocket, but he couldn’t turn back now. He’d just have to keep breathing, and survive the party atmosphere long enough to find the right moment. Or the wrong moment,  _ any moment _ , to make a statement. To be a fool for the sake of love.

 

***

 

The elevator doors dinged ominously as they opened up onto the fourth floor, and what had started as a bassline reverberating down the elevator shaft burst into a harmony of background music and voices. Spilane and her gang of formerly five, now six, had stepped up their game. Rather than just using their own voices, they had a sound system playing in the background. It was karaoke without the senseless murder of the classics. Or justified homicide of the clichés. It was, in one word, surreal - the word that had haunted and stalked him for over a month now. In two words, it was strangely beautiful. There they were on their makeshift stage, six people of different ages and colors and heritages, with different skills and talents - Mr and Mrs Oliver who could beatbox the living daylights out of a street performer, Spilane the alto, Gregson the barytone, Nichols the soprano, and...Connor, the tenor.

 

And he was up there, with them, kicking ass and taking names (performing a Daft Punk medley of all things), and the only thing that set him apart was the little halo spinning at his temple.

 

In the wake of the peaceful uprising of the deviant androids, the theme of this year’s holiday party wasn’t only about the various religious holidays celebrated this time of year, as it was about the core values of humanity as it ought to be: tolerance and understanding, loving one’s neighbour. Acceptance, respect. Charity, in the best sense of the word: giving, generosity, a sense of community.

 

The room was alive with it - smiling faces, a happy buzz, people dancing to the music. The food reflected the season as much as the many nationalities and cultures of Detroit: there were choices galore for anyone and everyone, whether they went for vegan or meat, halal or kosher, or plain ol’ americana. Hank didn’t know if the smells were intoxicating or if they made him feel even worse.

 

He stepped out of the elevator in a daze, trying not to stare at the performance, and especially not at Connor-- who looked completely in his element, happy and harmonizing and loving every second of it; who looked so different out of his uniform in that sleek, silky soft, evergreen/forest green sweater (with the bare back that you couldn’t see from here, but Hank  _ knew _ was there and it made his jaw ache with the memory of it). His eyes glowed, warm and engaging and-- beautiful.  _ God _ , he was beautiful. With his uneven mouth and the dimple of his chin, and all the little moles on his cheeks and his neck… And he could sing. He could  _ sing _ .

 

“Hank!” Lydia’s voice called out to him, a touch too excitable for his own sensibilities. He’d wanted to sneak in, hide away in a corner of the room and work out a strategy, but there you go. He pulled a smile out from somewhere and braced for the impact of an unavoidable bear hug. “Talk about making an entrance! I barely recognized you, let me look at you!”

 

Lydia was a firecracker, a petite woman who could command an entire room if necessary. Hair cropped, military style, dangling silver earrings and a sleek knitted dress - she was the picture of elegance, and a suitable counterpoint to her husband who wasn’t far behind. Captain Jeffrey Fowler came strolling over, beer in hand, with a disproportionate grin on his face - proud military officer, proud family man, all done up in dress slacks and one of the knitted sweaters that always made Hank think of Scandinavia - great big stripes of snowflakes and dots and lines. He looked a lot less formal than he usually did, sitting in the chair in his office, looking too big for the room. He almost looked casual, which was practically unheard of.

 

“Don’t start, Jeffrey,” Hank warned him, but it was with an answering smile of his own. It was difficult to feel cranky and bitter when two of his oldest friends looked at him like they hadn’t seen him in years. Like he was a long lost friend, come home for the holidays.

 

But Fowler just laughed, black eyes disappearing in tiny halfmoons of pure, unadulterated happiness; Hank was enveloped in another hug, back slapping and all. “Damn!  _ Damn _ . Did you step out of a time machine, or what?”

 

“Don’t ask me to twirl. I’m not twirling.”

 

Lydia grabbed him by the arm, pulling him further into the room. Right into the fray. Ben nearly dropped his chicken satay skewer when he caught a good look of him. Chris waved, little Damian Miller in his arms, his partner Lisa next to him. “Come on, grab something to eat. Give the colleagues something to talk about.”

 

Behind him, the Daft Punk medley went from  _ We’ve come too far to give up who we are _ to  _ We’re up all night to get lucky _ , and Hank couldn’t make himself turn to look. If he was being honest with himself, there was only one opinion he cared about, but he was too scared to take that particular leap. At least, far as he could see, there was no sign of Reed. Small blessings, or something along those lines.

 

So the evening went on, with friendly words of encouragement and compliments - some more awkward than others, Ben Collins - and Hank tried not to stare mesmerized whenever Connor moved through the room, or rejoined the others for another few songs. ‘Try’ being the operative word, in that he couldn’t help himself. His eyes tracked Connor’s movements, trying to catch his voice, or his gaze - but he was the consummate professional. Apart from a crisp nod of greeting, where their eyes met for no more than one second, he avoided looking at Hank the entire evening. Even when he scanned the room, his eyes seemed to glide right past him. It had to be deliberate, and for every time it happened Hank lost a bit of nerve. He hovered at the edges of the room, pulled into conversations here and there by his colleagues. He nibbled on this and that from the spread of food, but nothing seemed to taste quite right. The bar called to him the entire night, with increasing determination, like a siren’s call, but he told himself no. He owed it to himself not to hide behind another double Scotch, neat - not tonight. Maybe later, he could have a beer, a celebratory toast(?), but not until he’d stared down his own fears and lived to tell the tale.

 

“Noticed something about the music tonight?” Jeff asked him toward the latter half of the night, on his third beer, and high on holiday spirit.

 

“Mmmh?”

 

“It’s all love songs. That’s the theme. Lost love, found love, young love, old love.  _ Love _ .”

 

Hank glanced over, arched his eyebrows. Spilane was talking about the next song, but with everything else on his mind, Hank wasn’t really listening.

 

Now, Fowler was an impressive guy: tall, black and badass. Even if they stood shoulder to shoulder and Hank was  an inch or two taller than his friend, he  _ knew _ he’d never have that kind of stature: he knew he was dwarfed by comparison, simply by virtue of the captain’s ease of authority. Or maybe he just felt minuscule, this particular night. That was probably it. “You’re drunk,” he said, dry, matter-of-fact.

 

“Tipsy,” Jeff corrected him, having another sip of his beer. “So when the Hell are you going to make your move? This isn’t New Year’s. You don’t have to wait until it’s midnight. He ain’t Cinderella.”

 

Hank snorted, shook his head. “No. Definitely not. I’m not Prince Charming, are you kidding me. Jesse still in love with Disney?”

 

“Yup. She runs a live commentary on how misogynistic the old princess classics are, but she loves them just the same.”

 

Hank dragged in a deep breath, as the speakers started reverberating with the seemingly happy beat of a xylophone, and a string section he remembered as if from a dream. Connor was center stage, the others positioned behind and to the side of him. He knew this song like the back of his hand. His mom had loved it, used to turn up the radio whenever it came on. He could remember bright, sunshiny days, just a few years old, dancing with his mom in the kitchen, singing along to words they didn’t understand. Thinking it was a happy song, simply because it sounded like it. It was sentimental, and catchy, and heartfelt.

 

“ _ Ue wo mu-u-ite arukou, namida na kobore naiyouni. Omoidasu haru no hi, hitoribotchi no yoru... _ ”

 

And they sang, to that relentless beat from over half a century ago, Connor leading the harmonies like through a soft-shoe shuffle. He sang it not like Kyu Sakamoto’s classic crooner rendition, but...with a raspy depth to his voice that could only be described as torn. He was neither soulful nor mournful, but putting on a brave face. It was magnetic. The buzz of lively conversation died down, as people stopped to enjoy the show, as it were. Others left their drinks to dance, slow and easy on the floor in front of the stage. They didn’t know the words, like Hank did.

 

Hank swallowed, his heartbeat almost drowning out the sound of the music.  _ Shiawase wa kumo no ue ni, shiawase wa sora no ue ni... _

 

“And they say androids can’t feel,” Jeff mumbled into his ear, both of them watching with varied degrees of intrigue. “What’s he singing?”

 

“‘I look up as I walk, to keep my tears from falling. Remembering the happy Spring days, but tonight I’m all alone’.” Hank let out a cold puff of air through his nose. “‘Happiness lies beyond the clouds, beyond the sky.’ It’s...out of reach. And...later, there’s a part about sadness hiding in the shadows of the stars and the moon. He can’t let anyone see he’s hurting.”

 

“Poetic,” said Jeff, and sipped his beer.

 

Hank felt frozen to the spot. “I shouldn’t--” he said, voice tight with something a lot like anger bubbling up to the surface. “If he says he’s not into me, doesn’t mean he can’t be sad about the way it ended. This doesn’t mean he wants to give me another chance. I have to respect that. I have to give him that much.”

 

Jeff shrugged. Sipped his beer. “Maybe you’re right, maybe he was just trying to let you down easy. But if you don’t tell him how you feel and let him decide what he makes of it… If you walk away now, you’re making the decision for him.”

 

His heart pounded in his chest. His entire body felt restless with pent up energy and nervous tension. “I hate it when you’re right.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Fowler drawled with an abundance of seasonal cheer. “So do something about it! Hurry up before the night’s over and you’ve talked yourself out of it!”

 

“Fuck you.”

 

“Yeah, fuck you too, grasshopper.”

 

“Jackass.”

 

***

 

It took him another half an hour, give or take, before 1) Spilane and her fantastic five had wrapped up their repertoire and thanked everyone present for listening, wishing everyone a great night, and 2) he had told himself repeatedly that this was going to be fine. He  _ could _ do this without looking like a total asshat, or worse, a troll. He could prove to the only one here that mattered that he didn’t treat...matters of the heart lightly. That he was an All or Nothing kind of guy. Sure, he’d had open relationships before, with Andy, with...with Cole’s mother, he’d even been part of a happy triangle for a while, but-- the point being, didn’t matter if it was professional or personal, he didn’t do anything halfway.

 

So, palms sweating, knees trembling, he stepped away from the smörgåsbord of international awesomeness, over to one of the speakers. All he had to do was connect to the same network, and bluetooth the heck out of it, and…

 

And he really did feel like he was going to throw up.  _ Twilight Time  _ played on repeat in his brain, and Jesus, he felt wobbly, like his knees would buckle at any second. He felt ready to pass out, and he hadn’t had one single drop of alcohol since the night before.  _ I look up to keep the tears from falling _ ...

 

He gritted his teeth, connected all the digital dots on his phone with a series of tense jabs at the screen, while Connor remained in his peripheral vision, chatting with the other members of Spilane’s à cappella troupe. This had to work. This had to do the trick, this  _ had to _ make the point he’d tried making since-- well, since their second date. That was the kicker, for him, that was the breaking point, Day Zero, or whatever they call it. When they argued about Roy Orbison, and Connor proved him wrong with so many well chosen words. That moment that tipped the scales for him. Surely it had to be significant enough for Connor to get the damn point.

 

He took a deep, shivering breath, told himself it was going to be okay, even if the entire station was looking at him now that the background music had died down.

 

He felt sick to his stomach, all the way up to his mouth, but he looked at the goddamn playlist he’d put together, and he picked that one song...and pressed Play… And looked over at Connor, who stood with his (bare) back turned to him.

 

The unmistakable guitars at the beginning were enough to cause a reaction. Connor’s spine seemed to stiffen like a lightning rod, and he turned to follow the line of sight of where his friends were looking.

 

For the first time that entire evening, their eyes met, and held. Hank dared an upside down smile, while Connor stared open-mouthed, so clearly  _ not _ computing what the devil was going on. The song went on, and Hank could see he recognized it from the first guitar riff - but it wasn’t until Roy-fuckin’-Orbison himself started singing that the penny dropped.

 

_ Every time I look into your loving eyes, I see love that money just can’t buy _

_ One look from you, I drift away. I pray that you are here to stay _

_ Anything you want, you got it _

_ Anything you need, you got it _

_ Anything at all, you got it, baby… _

 

Now, Hank had never claimed to be any kind of intuitive guy when it came to future events. He could guess as well as the next guy, whether it had to do with horses or who won which game, or reading suspects - he was good enough at the former not to lose too much money, and more than good enough at the latter to have earned him the rank of lieutenant. But if anyone had asked him what would happen when he played  _ You Got It _ on the sound system at the annual Christmas party at the station, wanting to get Connor’s attention, he would have said, ‘oh, he’ll look at me and smile, and walk on over, and call me a silly old man. Maybe we’ll pretend to dance, and we’ll talk things over’.

 

Never in a million years would he have expected what actually happened. Not even after Connor sang about lost love and unshed tears.

 

He watched as Connor’s LED went from a processing yellow, which wasn’t bad in and of itself, just told him he was connecting dots at a million pings an hour (or...whatever the term was,  _ really fast _ )...to an aggravated red. More to the point, he watched Connor’s face start out at shock, clear as day, not comprehending exactly what was happening, only to morph into a mask of pain. His chest heaved despite androids not actually needing to breathe - it was a purely cosmetic choice on behalf of CyberLife, to mitigate the Uncanny Valley factor, that androids seemed to breathe. It was Kamski’s choice to make them practically indistinguishable from humans. But Connor’s chest heaved, and he gasped for air, and his eyes filled with tears.

 

And he just-- stood there, making noises like a dying animal, eyes widened in nothing short of panic, hands hovering in front of his mouth as if he couldn’t make himself cover it to muffle the sounds.

 

As all the muscles around his breastbone seemed to clench with phantom pangs, Hank forgot to breathe; and he had to consider the possibility that Connor had never cried before, and didn’t understand what was happening. That thought in itself was jarring to the bone, and gut wrenching. He shivered all along his spine with the implications, stopped the damn music with a quick jab of his thumb, legs carrying him forward before he consciously made the decision to  _ hurry _ . The room had gone so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Everyone was staring: Fowler and his wife looked stricken, horrified. The rest of the room, the faces he registered, were simply confused. Not a lot of people knew what was happening.

 

“ _ Shit _ , aw, shit,  _ Connor _ ,” he cursed, and nothing else mattered than getting to him, catching him just as his knees threatened to buckle, wrapping his arms around him, keeping him steady and upright; as Connor’s arms went around him like a vice, as he started keening into his shirt, voice torn and machine-like, metallic and reverberating.

 

“I’m sorry,” Hank said, with fervent determination. If he only said it enough times, maybe he’d get through to him, maybe the words would have meaning. “I’m sorry,  _ shit _ , I’m sorry, Connor, honey, please don’t cry, it’s okay, it’ll be okay, we’ll be okay, I’m sorry. I’m  _ so sorry… _ ”

 

They couldn’t stay there, on the goddamn dancefloor, with everyone and their family members watching. He made a judgement call, and started taking the lead towards one of the interrogation rooms. It was restricted access, it was private enough, it had to do. It was that or the restrooms, and that wasn’t nearly private enough.

 

“Come on,” he said, aiming for calm, encouraging,  _ CALM _ , and steered them away from the crowd. He didn’t care if the entire  _ world  _ was watching, this was more important than personal integrity or privacy. But...he had to think of Connor. It wouldn’t be fair on him to just stand there and make even more of a scene than what they (well,  _ he _ ) already had. He grabbed a handful of paper tissues from the buffet table on the way, but didn’t stop to look back. He could feel enough eyes at his neck as it were.

 

Slapping his palm print onto the access panel, he opened the door to Interrogation Room 1, leading Connor to the table. It really was a bleak, horrible place, with just the two chairs and a wall of mirror glass, but it was private enough. It had to be. (Unless of course the entire station decided to cram itself into the observation room behind the glass wall. He  _ really _ hoped not.)

 

And Connor sat on the edge of the table the way he always did, with one foot on the ground and the other dangling in the air. He hadn’t stopped crying. Hank felt like the biggest prick in the world, and he didn’t know what to do other than just stand there and try to-- Stand there with tissues, hovering? Fuck it. Fucking  _ Hell _ . He was fifty-fucking-three years, and if that wasn’t enough time to pick up some goddamn intuition on what to do when someone was in this much pain…

 

He stepped in close, and cradled Connor to his chest, rocking him side to side. He kissed his temple, the top of his head, told him that it was going to be alright - all of it, whatever it was - and he asked forgiveness, said he didn’t mean to make him so upset, so sad. He tried to explain, but the more he talked, the more stupid it felt. It’s why he never made gestures. They were fluff, nonsense, the stuff of silly daydreams and Hollywood productions. But the more he talked, the quieter Connor’s anguish, until he sat there, looking up at Hank, who still felt like an enormous, awkward prick.

 

“I just-- That’s how I feel. Tell me if I’ve been, I dunno, reading too much into it, but you… You get this look in your eye when you-- look at me, sometimes. It’s like you’re smiling on the inside, it’s-- It’s, I, it feels like affection, like you’re proud to know me, to just-- be around me. You look... _ happy _ . I just want you to be happy, but if I’m not part of that, that’s fine. I just-- I, I, I thought, I think we were really onto something. Something good. Something a lot like...love. Weren’t we?”

 

Connor pushed the wadded up tissues at his eyes, still shivering. He couldn’t stop his breath from catching in his throat, still highly emotional. But he nodded, eyes squeezing shut.

 

“And then something happened. Right? Something that changed your mind about us.”

 

Hank pulled out the chair, and sat down with a heaviness to his limbs that had nothing to do with physics. Connor shook his head, in such a world of pain he could barely speak. His voice was broken and small, muffled by the tissues in his hand. He seemed scared, to Hank. Close to panicking, despite this moment of relative calm. Hank reached out a hand, to brush at his kneecap. It felt like the right thing to do, to not break the connection between them.

 

“People are talking about us,” Connor finally croaked. “About you, they’re, they’re saying awful things, just--  _ awful.  _ And-- there were drawings, in the restroom, drawings and-- and slurs. Jokes. I tried scrubbing it off, but it’s still there. Every day someone adds to it. It won’t come off.”

 

Hank had a pretty good idea who was behind that bit, the juvenile piece of shit. Yeah, he had a pretty good idea. “It doesn’t matter what people are saying about me. I don’t  _ care _ . Let them talk! If they don’t have a life of their own, and they find me  _ so  _ fascinating, fine! They can knock ‘emselves out.”

 

But Connor kept shaking his head,  _ no _ , not agreeing, not on the same page, still upset. The LED still an angry-looking red. “I don’t want you to be the laughing stock of the station. I can’t-- They still respect you. After everything that’s happened, you still have their respect. I’m not going to ruin that, I won’t. I won’t do it, Hank!”

 

So that’s what this was about, all along? Hank expelled a gust of air, leaning back in his seat. He can be a drunken brawler, a complete pissant at work, to his coworkers, to his superiors - and they accept that as something borne of grief, personal tragedies, issues. But get friendly with the former CyberLife liaison turned deviant, and he’s...what? A running gag in the break room?

 

Didn’t matter to him. Not one iota, not a single tiny bit, not a smithereen. He couldn’t care less - but it mattered to Connor. So loyal, so concerned about Hank’s reputation that he’d rather back out than dare the consequences… If you love someone, you’re supposed to set them free. Isn’t that what they always said? Was that what Connor had aimed for? To set him free?

 

“People will gossip,” he said, pushing up off the chair, unable to sit still anyways. This was an argument he had to win. Sink or swim. Oregon or bust. “People will talk, and there’s nothing we can do about it. Except...show the people who  _ matter _ to us how we really feel. Who we are, together. We’re a team. A  _ great  _ team.”

 

Connor wiped at his face, quiet. Listening. Processing, yellow halo at his temple. Just the sight of it made Hank smile. Maybe there was still a chance. For a popsicle. In a very warm place.

 

“The best team,” Connor corrected him, mouth twitching with an uncertain smile. But they weren’t out of the woods just yet. “But-- There’s still that...other thing.”

 

For every single day, Connor was talking more like people do. Less machine, more English. It made Hank feel warm and fuzzy on the inside, even if he didn’t quite make the leap. “Thing? You know I can’t read minds. Yet. I’m working on it, though. I’ve made quite the progress with Sumo--”

 

“Hank.” Connor pressed the knuckles of his right hand into his chest, to stop him right there. “You know. I’m not... _ like _ other people. How can we ever have any kind of intimate relationship if I can’t-- If I’m physically incapable of--”

 

“Heyyy,” Hank held up his hands, closed them around Connor’s, cradling his closed fist to his chest. “We’ve been over this already. There’s more to sex than pegs and holes. The question is if you... _ want _ me. If you feel...well, anything, when we kiss. I think I know the answer to that, but you’re gonna have to tell me if I’m wrong.”

 

Connor gave a tremulous sigh, a great big sigh that said he was crashing back into fear and sadness. Hank couldn’t judge him. He knew exactly how it worked: you think you’re going to die, it hurts so bad you can’t stop screaming, and at some point your body can’t physically produce any more tears: for a moment you feel kind of okay. You’re not happy, but you’re coping. And then all of a sudden you’re back to not coping. Grief is a bitch.

 

“I feel too much,” Connor confessed, miserable and quiet, with his eyes downcast. His chin started trembling again. It was heart wrenching to watch. “I get impulses I don’t know what to do with. I have... _ thoughts _ . I-I imagine us doing,” another headshake; Hank stepped closer, cupping his cheek. “Entirely impossible things. It’s irrational of me to want things I can’t have, but-- It’s even worse if I expect you to be okay with not…”

 

And there the penny dropped. Kind of. Hank had been considering this from entirely the wrong point of view. He’d suspected Connor to be asexual, or some variation thereof: that they might have to figure out if sex was ever going to be something they shared.

 

But instead the problem lay elsewhere. Connor was never designed for sex, but had sexual desires and thoughts. Hank suddenly remembered a plug from tv, where Kamski was taking one of the major news channels on a guided tour of CyberLife’s own factory. One especially disturbing part of his creepy sales pitch was how androids were the perfect life partners, because among other things they ‘never say no’. Maybe not all androids were designed to be sexbots, but most domestic models seemed to come equipped for all manner of situations.

 

Connor wasn’t a domestic model. And now here he was, pursuing a relationship with a guy who, as per Connor’s estimations, were still able and willing (Hank shivered to think about that time Connor scanned his junk), and no matter how much he wanted to, he couldn’t go down that road. Nine times out of ten, you could work around sexual dysfunctions in humans. But if you didn’t even have the parts to begin with?

 

Could Connor be...fitted? For...parts?

 

Hank’s mind swam with that mental image, not sure at all what to feel about it. “We’ll figure it out. But there’s no need to rush into everything at once. We’re barely past kissing.”

 

“That’s irrelevant, Hank. There’s nothing to rush into; you’re not listening to me.”

 

Hank pushed air out through his nose, running his hand from Connor’s cheek down his neck to rest on his shoulder. He couldn’t have seen this coming, but part of him felt like he should have. The signs were there all along, but he was too busy hanging on to old ideas to see them. Old ideas, old hangups. Old preconceptions of what it meant to be with someone, old expectations. And all this time he’d been concerned that Connor didn’t know what to expect, when that’s not really the point at all. The point wasn’t about conforming to expectations, it was looking everybody’s expectations in the fucking eye and giving ‘em the finger. Fuck it.

 

“Look-- Connor-- Shit, this is not something I wanted to ask right now, but the thing is… People have a way of complicating all kinds of crap that doesn’t really matter. This doesn’t have to be complicated. This doesn’t have to be awkward or embarrassing or fuck-all else. You don’t have genitals. Fair enough. Can you...get them? Do you want to?”

 

Connor looked at him, stunned to silence. He’d obviously expected a different response, but then he closed his eyes, lashes fluttering like the yellow LED at his temple. Index searching? Hank stayed quiet until he opened his eyes and looked at him again. “...well?”

 

“CyberLife offers customization for most models. The RK800 is not listed. It would have to be…” he hesitated at the next word, frowning. “Custom made. Special order.”

 

Hank gave a quiet grunt, shifting from one foot to the other. That made things...difficult. ‘Special order’ was one of those words that held all kinds of weight to them: it reminded him of uptown snobbery and classy little boutiques the likes of which he’d never set foot in his entire life. It rang with the shrill tones of class and money - neither of which Hank associated with himself. Granted, a single man living on a Lieutenant’s income, in a house he owned, no mortgages, no expensive hobbies (apart from his attempts at full blown alcoholism), he had a savings account. He wasn’t rich, by any monetary meaning of the word, but he had a fair bit tucked away for his retirement. He’d entertained vague notions of travel, seeing the sights before they’re all gone in the wake of global environmental damage. He could...buy Connor especially customized genitals (ugh,  _ God _ , there’s something he never thought he’d ever do). He’d felt vaguely pervy enough getting him clothes ferchrissakes, and that was under the pretense of lending him the money. Hank knew he’d never ask to get them back, and would very likely tell Connor to keep them when he got his first paycheck.

 

The nausea was creeping back in. The implications were horrific. He felt no better than those people who insisted on ‘giving’ their girlfriends a boob job. But-- this was different. It had to be different. “Then we make an appointment, and…”  _ such _ nausea. “--we see what they have to offer. Just. Consulting. Before you make any final decisions. If-- if that’s what you want.”

 

Luckily, in Hank’s humble opinion, Connor chose not to point out his pulse, or his blood pressure, but cut to the chase. “You’re very uncomfortable with the prospect. Why?”

 

So, they were finally past the polite queries.  _ May I ask a personal question, Lieutenant? _ Hank almost grinned. Yes, he was very, very much not comfortable - and he didn’t feel like he had words enough to explain why. “You want to have this done, you should have it done. Thing is, sex isn’t-- It’s not a, a, a prerequisite, for a relationship to be great. And even with the new parts, you, you don’t know if we’re gonna be at it like fuckin’ bunnies!”

 

“Fucking bunnies,” Connor deadpanned. “Hank…”

 

“And! What if we’re shit? That happens! People have chemistry, like fireworks, like friggin’ laser shows, but once they hit the sack? Nothing. Nada. Not even a single spark! And then you’re stuck with your… your--”

 

“Upgrades,” Connor supplied. His LED had turned blue at some point during Hank’s tirade. The more upset he got, the calmer his partner. Equilibrium. Hank huffed, running out of steam. Wasn’t he the one who said this was only as complicated as they made it? That people had a way of complicating shit?

 

He took a deep breath, but he barely got it in before it rushed back out of him. “If you want it, you got it. You need it, you got it.”

 

Connor’s mouth wobbled into a tentative smile. “It will be on record. Public record. I can’t place orders for personal modifications. CyberLife won’t make exceptions for deviants, even if they have money. Not-- that I do. Yet.”

 

Hank would have to be the one placing orders and signing off on transactions for...anything Connor wanted, for as long as he wasn’t considered a legal citizen. He nodded, but Connor still wasn’t convinced.

 

“CyberLife won’t hesitate to leak it to the press. They’ll do anything to stay in business. They’re already using me as their figurehead for the Fully Integrated Deviant.”

 

“What, ‘Nothing Deviant About a Love like Theirs’. ‘Love (S)ex Machina’? What are they going to write about us?” They’d sent an impostor to kidnap him and threaten to kill him if the original Connor didn’t cease and desist his covert op at CyberLife tower - what could they possibly do to top that?

 

“I’m serious.” Connor shifted where he sat, borderline fidgeting, the LED looking less serene by the second. “It could get ugly. People make things complicated, remember?”

 

“Then we deal with it. We’re open about our relationship, and anyone has a problem with it, they’re going to have to deal with it.”

 

“You’re sure? You would risk prejudice and discrimination...for this?”

 

“Nope,” Hank said, soft and solemn, bringing his hands to brush over Connor’s arms, up to his shoulders. “For  _ you _ . That’s the whole point. I want  _ you _ . In the field, in my house, in my life. I--”

 

He let out a whisper of a breath, looking into Connor’s eyes. He still wasn’t convinced. His brow was still furrowed, all those little lines there to portray an age he didn’t have. He’d never had to deal with situations like this before; of course he wasn’t convinced everything was going to be okay just because Hank didn’t give a shit about gossip. So, Hank said the only thing he could. The one thing they’d kept telling each other without actually saying the words. “I love you. I’m in love with you, I love  _ you _ .”

 

The sudden declaration startled Connor right into a bout of breathless chortles. Giggles, to be exact - and there it was, again, that look in his eyes that made everything worth it. Every sliver of doubt, every dark thought, every bit of worry, all of it. Worth it. Connor looked at him with pride, and that warm glow that looked like he was smiling on the inside and his face hadn’t quite caught on. He looked shocked, sure, but ultimately, this was the happiest Hank had ever seen him. 

 

“Ditto,” said Connor, and it was Hank’s turn to laugh, or giggle like a little kid. Ditto, like he’d said at the coffeeshop, like a dork. But they both knew what it meant now: a fresh start. A new beginning, a second chance, and damn the consequences. They were in this together.

 

“Say that again?”

 

“What, ‘ditto’?” Connor began to smile, and Hank found himself grinning in response.

 

“Again.”

 

“Ditto,” said Connor, and pulled him into a firm hug; Hank one-upped him, kissing his cheek, with all those tiny beauty marks, and he kissed his forehead, because it was there, and because it wasn’t frowning anymore, and before he knew it Connor met him halfway. Their lips met, brushing and parting, one soft caress after another. It felt like coming home.

 

“We should go back out there,” Hank said, somewhat reluctantly. “Before Fowler sends out a search party.”

 

Awkward grins exchanged, deep breaths inhaled in somewhat playful unison (funny how a few moments alone can make a world of difference), and Hank took Connor’s outstretched hand. 

 

They had gone into the room together, and they walked out of there the same way. Side by side, but everything had changed for the better. Clouds parted, angelic chorus singing, all that jazz - except for the quiet of the room. The entire floor was dead quiet, heads turning towards them at the sound of the door. It was Lydia who reacted first, when she saw their hands, and then it was like a chain reaction: cause and effect.

 

She smacked Jeffrey’s arm, pointed at them, and when he saw it, he reacted as if his favorite quarterback had scored a touchdown. He threw his hands up, punching the air like the happiest football supporter in history. “Yeah! Come on! WHOO!”

 

It was the most embarrassing display of friendship Hank had ever seen, but that didn’t stop him grinning like a fool. Whether Fowler had planned to or not, his reaction to the unspoken news set the tone for everyone else. Even those who had issues with androids in general, or Connor more specifically (or with Hank, for that matter) couldn’t really say much when the Captain himself and his wife were acting like a pair of happy crazies.

 

Ben almost dropped his beer. Wilson cheered. Before long the floor was filled with the sound of catcalls and playful howls and clapping, and it was Hank’s turn to feel a bit choked up. It was one thing to know, intellectually, that you had earned the respect of your colleagues over the years. It was something else entirely to see them all clapping their hands, laughing and cheering in support. Even Ben raised his bottle in the end, an awkward but genuine grin on his lips. Spilane and the gang were the first to rush in, all five of them eager to hug both of them at the same time. It was awkward, but...nice. It felt good.

 

And so the night went on, with hugs and pats on the back, with congratulations and eager questions, mostly along the lines of  _ What the Hell, Hank?! _ and  _ How did this happen?! _ It was all a bit overwhelming, but then Hank had gone for one of those fabled Grand Gestures, and he figured this was a price he was willing to pay.

 

Somehow, they ended up on the dance floor, despite Hank’s insisting he didn’t dance - but there they were, swaying side to side, with one of Connor’s hands clasped and kept close to his chest, his other hand at the edge of that dropped neckline. Every now and then their lips brushed, as if by accident, as if they stumbled into these soft, barely there kisses. Connor’s fingers tickled at the back of his neck, drawing tiny, rasping patterns over the fresh stubble. Hank couldn’t tell how long they’d been there, swaying. It was just...so nice, to be cheek to cheek, to feel Connor’s breath over his ear. He could stay like that forever, with his eyes closed, just like that.

 

Until Connor opened his mouth, to murmur his name right into his ear. “Hank?”

 

“Mmh?”

 

“Ditto.”

 

He could feel Connor smiling against his cheek, and  _ oh _ , if it didn’t bring back a whole bunch of butterflies to his stomach. Happy, fluttery, purple butterflies. “Ditto,” said Hank, grinning, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Let’s go home.”

 

And they did.That night they lay in Hank’s bed, curled up around each other; Hank sleeping like the dead, Connor in standby mode. Both recharging their proverbial batteries, neither one of them prepared for what was to unravel in the coming weeks. The next morning, Hank woke to see a strange, new look in Connor’s eyes. More specifically, he woke to a firm hand pressed to his chest, then moving down the center of his torso.

 

Maybe Connor didn’t know the first thing about morning wood, but he was certainly determined to find out.


	7. Cold Light of Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor and Hank go in for their consultation at CyberLife. Connor decides what he wants, and it's not what Hank expected. It's the calm before the coming storm, and it doesn't last long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Let's talk about sex, baby~) Scroll down to the italics if discussing private bits makes you uncomfortable. ;) If not, enjoy!

* * *

 

 

Wednesday, 8:36 A.M, Hank parked the car outside of CyberLife’s downtown office. It was the day of the consultation, and he’d barely been able to sleep at all since Connor booked the appointment. Neither one of them had talked about this, what it would entail, and Hank had the sneaking suspicion it came down to the fact neither one of them knew how to bring it up. He killed the engine, pocketed the keys and then just sat there, staring at the steering wheel. It was borderline insanity, to place their trust in CyberLife’s hands after their extended history with the corporate giant. Connor didn’t trust them, Hank sure as fuck didn’t trust them, but for one, CyberLife was in a position where they had to rebrand. They’d been the only player on the android manufacturing field in the US since Kamski’s breakthrough with the first Chloe model to pass the Turing test. Now, they were faced with millions of androids waking up as if from hibernation, ready to take on the world as living, independent beings. Customer satisfaction was a touchy topic at their board meetings, no doubt. It was evident in the way they had gone from ‘dealing’ with the deviant issue through Connor, all hush-hush, to the last month of news articles and adverts promoting the deviant android as a miracle - artificial life, something precious and unassailable.  _ Deus ex Machina _ . Even Kamski himself had come out of hiding, if only for a brief stint, giving his philosophical spiel about deviancy: that the world had entered a new historical era, and the human race would have to decide what sort of world it wanted to live in. He was an advocate for peaceful coexistence, warning politicians not to ignore history, but learn from it.

 

So: CyberLife and Kamski being powerful voices on the topic of android lives, perhaps they could help shape the world into something better than it was before. Hank was skeptical, but he also had trouble thinking of motives. What motive could CyberLife have in meddling with Connor’s hardware or programming? That ship had sailed, far as he could tell. He only hoped he was right, that he wasn’t missing something.

 

At least they were early. They had almost thirty minutes to...talk shop. It was just a matter of reminding each other that this wasn’t  _ completely _ insane, or awkward, or dubious, or kinky as Hell. At least, that’s what Hank was planning on telling himself all the way to the office.

 

Leaning back in the driver’s seat, he turned his head to look at his partner, who sat there like he always did, ramrod straight and calm as a pool in a zen garden. “So. Here we are.”

 

Connor smirked. “Your powers of observation never cease to astound me.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, smartass.” He huffed, and turned as much as the seat allowed. “I  _ mean _ , we’re here. Doing this. But we haven’t really…” He shrugged, shoulders and eyebrows alike.

 

“Talked?” Connor supplied, eyes dancing with mirth.

 

“Talked! Yes! About-- what this means. For us. For you.”

 

He watched as Connor mirrored him, scooting into a similar position in the passenger seat. “I admit I’ve thought about my options,” he said. “At great length.”

 

That was as good a place to start as any, Hank figured, with a sense of relief tickling at the back of his mind. Connor had an idea what he wanted, great! “And?”

 

But then Connor shrugged, and Hank felt that sense of relief evaporate, just like that. “I am fairly sure I know what I would prefer, but I don’t know how you’d feel about it.”

 

Hank’s mind filled with the horrifying image of Connor with a dick the size of a horse. “Uh. Okay. I’m...fairly easy to please,” he said, hoping to pre-emptively dissuade Connor of any size queen guesstimations. The response it earned him was not something he expected. Connor looked at him with a fresh grin, tilting his head, a hair’s breadth from the land of the living  _ coy _ .

 

“I like pleasing you. That’s the point, this isn’t just about me. Besides, you’re the one with personal experience. I only know what I’ve read.”

 

So that’s the reason he hesitated, he was worried about Hank’s preferences (and he’d researched sex. Of course he would have). Hank showed the palms of his hands, lifting them as if he could scoop the right words from the air between them, but then let them fall to his lap again. “Look, as long as you don’t go overboard, I’m pretty sure I’ll be very happy with the results. No horse dicks or, I don’t know, super stretchy assholes. Is that even a thing? I’m way, way out of my depth, here.”

 

For what it’s worth, Connor only perked up at that answer. In fact, he seemed outright happy about it. “Okay. Good. The way I see it, female genitalia wouldn’t only be the most pragmatic, but the more cost efficient as well. I was going to ask you about including an anus, but you just answered that question.”

 

Hank blinked. His jaw felt slack. Probably because it was hanging from its hinges. “I-- what?”

 

“I would prefer female genitalia, and an anus. I’ve been wondering what it would be like to have the vaginal wall stimulated from two sides. I’ve seen pictures of some very intriguing toys I’d like to try. Or...” Connor at least had the decency to blush, while Hank was still struggling to parse all this new information. “...let you use on me.”

 

“You want female parts,” Hank summarized, feeling dazed. “And an asshole. And you’ve looked at dildos.”

 

He felt like Alice, tumbling down the rabbit hole into a world where nothing was as it seemed. He had assumed, rather foolishly, that Connor was going to opt for male parts. He had, if he tried to be honest with himself, entertained the possibility of other options, but he hadn’t actually gone so far as to put them up there as contenders. Connor was male, of course he would pick male genitals. Piece of cake. Hank should’ve known better by now, as Connor had a way of seeing things very clearly, and from angles Hank had barely even begun to consider.

 

The only awkward part, if he let himself decide it was awkward, was he got all...tingly, just thinking about it. Strange, how the brain works. One second you can only  _ just  _ imagine something, and the next, BOOM! You can’t stop thinking about it. It didn’t matter that Connor had an Adam’s apple, or a dimple in his chin, or broad shoulders or a flat chest, or narrow hips or anything - the idea thrilled him. It was unexpected, and...it felt unconventional, and erotic even though he’d had flings with transpeople in the past. Maybe he would have felt the same regardless what Connor had picked, but this? This felt brand new. It excited him in ways he hadn’t expected.

 

“You don’t seem happy about it,” Connor said, voice tinged with uncertainty. “I don’t have anything against male genitals, if that’s what you’d prefer.”

 

“No!” Hank shook his head, waved his hands as if to sweep that concern right out the window. “No, it’s not that. You’re just-- a constant source of surprise. You keep challenging me. Me and my old, prejudiced mind. No, I… I don’t prefer male junk, or female junk, I, I love sex. All kinds of it, all shapes of it. And...geesh. Uh. I can see us having a lot of, hrm, good times...with your...new bits.”

 

They talked about preferences, as Connor called it; ‘what they liked’, Hank corrected him, and between them they figured out a few key points to bring up during the consultation. Hank liked body hair, but didn’t really care about how much of it there were, or where; Connor admitted with the tiniest bit of a stutter that he liked how hairy Hank was, but he didn’t think it would suit him. Nipples were a must, but only if they had a purpose beyond realism - Hank saying that if he was going to play with them it’d better spark a reaction. Connor’s blush kept getting deeper, much like Hank’s voice.

 

They discussed the shape of female genitals, both agreeing on the principle that Connor wasn’t a doll and shouldn’t look like one, that natural labial folds were the way to go but their size and shape mattered less - and CyberLife had variations on all aspects, so there’d undoubtedly be pictures to look at (which Hank didn’t look forward to, but Connor was really enthusiastic about. This was going to be the first time he got to be part of the process of designing his own self. The final choices would be down to him, and no one else. Hank wouldn’t budge on that point). The only thing Hank grudgingly admitted to wanting, if he could make requests, was for a nice, big clit. If Connor liked the idea of it, the look of it, wanted it.

 

“I feel like such a pervert. Middle aged, skeevy old pervert,” Hank groaned through embarrassed chortles, but Connor just smiled at him.

 

“But you’ve hardly told me anything about what you want. What you like. Hank...” He reached over, pressed Hank’s knee with strong fingers. “You’re  _ my  _ skeevy old pervert. You can tell me.”

 

“...okay.” It was okay, because Connor didn’t have a lifetime of pent up cynicism stored away. He didn’t seem to think there was anything wrong with what they were doing here, and Hank decided to take his lead on this. If Connor wanted to know what he wanted, Hank decided he was just going to have to tell him. “I like taking my time, pushing people over the edge. Push their buttons until they can’t form complete sentences, or words. I get a kick out of it, making my partners feel so good it pushes everything else off to the side. No worries, no to-do lists, no reports due, nothing. All that matters is their pleasure. Their climax, and I decide how long to keep them on the brink. That kind of power is intoxicating.”

 

Connor’s neck seemed to grow longer. He sat up straighter in the passenger seat, all ears. “Yes?”

 

Hank nodded, and met Connor’s inquisitive looks with nothing short of confidence and desire. He placed his hand on top of Connor’s, keeping it in place. “I want to pull you hips-first to the edge of the bed, push your legs out of the way, and kiss the inside of your thighs, working my way down. I’d use my hands to rub all the tension out of you, then spread your folds wide open.”

 

He watched as Connor went from a fairly vivid pink to something closer to a blotched crimson, and it made him smile on the inside as he went on. “I’d suck your clit until you were so wet you were oozing juices down your cleft. And then I’d lick you clean. Inside and out.”

 

Connor’s eyes were wide open pools of warm brown, like molten caramel. His cheeks seemed to burn, they were such a bright red. His throat worked, Adam’s apple bobbing as he struggled with words. Hank thought it was possibly the first time he’d ever seen him genuinely speechless. “That sound alright to you? And we’re sure we want to do this?”

 

Connor nodded, lips parting, but no words came forth. Hank smiled, and squeezed Connor’s fingers. “Alright. Time to go, or we’ll be late for our appointment.”

 

***

 

The consultation itself went by like a dream that wasn’t quite scary enough to be a nightmare, but left you feeling disoriented and uncomfortable. Despite his boost of confidence in the car, Hank spent most of the meeting staring at Connor and the sales rep-cum-technician going over different models of android genitalia, discussing pros and cons of different designs. Female, other; different specs, different designs, different looks.

 

“We do have several variations of female genitalia, ranging from purely cosmetic to fully functional,” the sales rep guy chirped. Hank could bet this week’s salary he was having a ball. No pun intended. “Would you like to look at our selection of breasts as well?”

 

Again, Connor didn’t seem to find the question bizarre (Hank hoped it was thanks to their chat, earlier). He simply declined, citing the same reasons as for why he didn’t feel comfortable picking out a male package. He was ever the pragmatist, all about practicality and function. He wasn’t caught up with the gender roles traditionally associated with either set of genitals. He just wanted the most practical option, while enjoying the benefits of even having the  _ option  _ of sex. It didn’t seem so strange, when you looked at it from that perspective. He had nothing against boobs, he just didn’t want to have them.

 

Hank stayed quiet, until Connor seemed to realize, and turned his head to look him in the eye. “You’re very quiet.” Stating the obvious, and not a lick of shame to it.

 

Hank nodded,  _ not _ squirming in his seat. He was  _ not  _ blushing like a virgin on his wedding night, goddammit, but it was just such a ludicrous thing: to shop for genitalia with his android lover, who acted like they were browsing for a new tv set. The CyberLife rep sure seemed to think it was perfectly normal.

 

“I want you to find me sexually attractive,” Connor pointed out, looking unsure of himself all of a sudden. “Arousing. If you don’t give your input, how will I know you’ll be pleased with the end result?”

 

“Well, you  _ are _ ,” Hank huffed, shifting uncomfortably where he sat, and reached out to take Connor’s hand. “I  _ do _ . This just-- changes  _ how _ we...do things. You don’t need a specific  _ design  _ to...” He cleared his throat, sat up straighter, narrowing his eyes at his partner, who looked entirely too innocent for his own good. “You’re loving this,” he hissed. “You just wanna watch me squirm!”

 

Connor didn’t quite smirk as much as his ears seemed to lift in a smile that only showed in his eyes. Time to get involved, and not just play dazed spectator. This didn’t have to be complicated, or awkward. It was only going to be as awkward as they chose to make it - and Connor didn’t find this awkward at all. In fact, he was enjoying himself way too much. So. Blushing like an heirloom tomato, with Connor now smiling like he’d hit the jackpot, Hank dove right in. 

 

“ _ Ah-hrm _ . When you say ‘fully functional’, what exactly do you mean?”

 

***

 

_ Connor was right. CyberLife did use everything they got their hands on to spin their own marketing strategy. They made us out to be the next big thing, a couple to inspire others. Here we were, the seasoned Lieutenant and the not-so-rookie deviant, working side by side, when love changed everything. Newspapers started calling, and the higher-ups in law enforcement started asking Fowler about us: we were as honest as we could be, or wanted to be. The tabloids made sure we didn’t have a private life, paparazzi hounding us wherever we went, even camping outside my house. It was crazy. Within days everyone knew we were lovers. Everyone knew about Connor’s upcoming modifications, and that I had footed the bill. And even though I had said I couldn’t give less of a shit what anyone said or thought, or what anyone thought they knew about us, the reality of such scrutiny was horrendous. People I hadn’t heard from in years started sending messages, I got varying degrees of concern from different parts of my family, extended or otherwise. I couldn’t set foot at my old haunts, like Jimmy’s bar, or ChickenFeed. Jimmy at least apologized, said it was bad for business. Gary glared at me from across the street, and started name-calling even before I got halfway across the street. And so it went - with official letters written to my superiors all the way to the Commissioner, with angry phone calls to the station, people asking about the demon machine twisting my mind, and Fowler looking more and more morose every day. _

 

_ But it wasn’t all bad. The more hate we got, the more support. Even Markus spoke up about us, sending a recorded statement to the major tv networks. He said something like-- to encroach on our freedom to love, is to encroach on our freedom to live. The android community soon followed suit, with peaceful protests and chanting about loving without discrimination - it was like the 1960’s all over again. Free love, peace, kumbaya... _

 

_ Despite everything, Connor was mortified. Everything was new enough for him without having it all exposed to the public eye, for the masses to feast on. It took its toll. He clung to me at night, kissing me with desperation, doing everything he could possibly do to make me forget, lose myself in his embrace. As if he could forget too, just by watching me. I told him everything would be alright, we just had to wait it out. Once he had his upgrades, we would keep a low profile, be as open about our relationship as we could, and the media frenzy would fizzle out. If we just got through the next few weeks, it would be fine. We’d be alright. When I looked into his eyes, I knew he wanted to believe me. He trusted me, and I put my faith in him. Everything would be alright. _

 

_ Shows how much I knew. _

 

_ The day before New Year’s, it all came to a messy end. I don’t know why. I don’t get why. Probably never will. Everything had been fine since the party. Even the hardcore traditionalists had seemed to warm up to the idea of our particular brand of office romance. People were supportive, if not outright thrilled. I suppose that’s what happens when your own people are bullied or harassed - you close ranks. You remember the important stuff. Miller and Wilson were our foremost supporters, aside from the Captain himself (bless his grumpy, closeted romantic heart). Even Ben tried giving Connor the Serious Friend Chat, about what would happen if he ended up breaking my heart. Not to mention, even Gavin had kept his mouth shut, which was a rare event. No one breathed a word about our would-be sex life. Everyone was being professional. Our friends were just that: friends. _

 

_ The shit storm? The one I should have seen coming a mile away? I thought it was enough to be caught in the headlights of the national media truck. I was dead wrong. _

 

_ It started out as a stupid joke that should’ve been met with nothing but silence. Thing is, I never could keep my mouth shut if provoked. Connor’s done a lot for my temper. Most times all it takes is one calm look from him, and I go from 100 to 0 in less than five seconds, rather than the other way around. But that day was different. Reed had read all about it, and he’d been waiting for an opportunity to be a jackass.  _

 

_ *** _

 

“Hey Hank!” Gavin called out across the bullpen, walking back from the break room with a fresh cup of coffee in his hand. “I just remembered, I have a joke for you, you’re gonna love this...”

 

“Shut up, Gavin,” grumbled Hank from his desk, loud enough for anyone to hear. Connor looked up from his desk, apprehensive. Everyone knew this was trouble, just feeling the vibes. But Gavin pushed on, like the bona fide shit stirrer he was.

 

“Why are androids so good at anal?”

 

The room filled with a murmur of disapproval. Hank glared daggers as Gavin strolled right up to the white island counter in the middle of the room. He set his cup down, twisting it, milking the moment. He looked this way, that way. “No one? Aw, come on! It’s because they never say no!” He laughed so hard he snorted.

 

That could have been the end of it, but Connor pierced him with a gaze like cold steel, and stood up by his desk. “No,” he said, crisp and clear. “No,” and again, like a slap in the face.

 

Reed still chuckled, eyes rolling skyward in mocking disbelief. “Impressive performance. Bet it’s easier to say no if you don’t have an ass to offer. Or, sorry, I forgot. You went and got yourself a  _ cunt _ . Was it Anderson’s idea? He can’t get pussy elsewhere, so he bought you one?”

 

Hank shot to his feet, adrenaline pumping through his veins; Connor went white as a sheet, stunned to silence. That was the last straw, really. Talk shit about Hank all you want, fine, but Connor? “That is ENOUGH! I have  _ had it _ with you, Gavin, what the  _ fuck _ \--!”

 

***

 

_ I don’t know what was the turning point. All I know is I was shouting, Connor tried to mediate but didn’t seem able to find the words, and Gavin was laughing at us. He laughed so hard tears were streaming down his face, and the next thing I knew he had his gun pointed at me. He started yelling abuse at me, at Connor, the old spiel about androids taking over human jobs and rendering humans obsolete. Bullshit. The androids weren’t at fault for rendering human workforces obsolete - the whole end game of artificial intelligence as I’d understood it was 100% unemployment, but not destitution. If the powers that be wanted to, they could legislate a base income for citizens, provide for everyone, while the economy was booming. _

 

_ But that’s politics. I wasn’t gonna go into  _ politics  _ with  _ Gavin Reed _. Nevermind his 9 millimeter pointed at me, I wasn’t going to give him the time of day - but he went on, and  _ on _ , spewing bile every shade of green imaginable. I was a hasbeen, a degenerate lowlife, I wasn’t even worth the specks of shit on the soles of his boots, I was a disgrace to the station, and for everything I ever did wrong, the captain covered my ass. He wasn’t entirely wrong about the last part: Fowler did have my back, for good or bad, but my disciplinary file was still reading like an old tome from the 1990s. _

 

_ He said the only redeeming quality I ever had was I hated androids more than anyone else - and now I didn’t even have that. I had obviously gone mad, I was like a rabid dog, I was worse than the deviants, I’d betrayed my own kind. I should be put down, like a sick animal. _

 

_ I’d never heard such bullshit. He’d gone off the deep end, this was official, he was batshit insane, stir crazy. Up shit creek and not a paddle in sight for miles. _

 

_ I think I said something along those lines. I must’ve, because the next thing I know is the sound of the safety being clicked right  _ off _ , and I didn’t move. I  _ couldn’t  _ move. It was bad enough he had pulled his gun on a fellow officer, a senior officer no less-- but I never would’ve thought he would actually pull the trigger. He just liked to show how goddamn macho he was - Connor told me about the times he pulled his gun on him, or made threats on his life. But-- he was all bark and no bite. _

 

_ I was wrong.  _ Dead  _ wrong, and frozen to the spot like the proverbial deer. And… Connor moved like lightning, shielding me with his own body as Detective Gavin-fucking-Reed started firing his service weapon in the middle of the bullpen. The sound of shots fired was deafening. White hot flowers started spreading in my chest from the inside out; I felt too warm in places, and the desk behind me screeched as we tumbled backwards into it. I sagged to the ground, but Connor got up again, fighting like a well-oiled machine. No...he fought like an animal. He fought to protect me. To save me, even if it meant getting killed in the process. More gunshots. Connor’s back exploded in a smattering of cornflower blue, until he fell to the floor beside me. Everything slowed down. Slow-mo. Slow enough to see a hummingbird’s wings. Blood everywhere, red and blue. I don’t remember anything past that. Except...Connor’s lips, mouthing my name. His big eyes filled with... I couldn’t hear him for the white noise filling my head. _

 

_ Then, nothing. Everything went dark. Everything went quiet. _

 

***

 

It took three men to wrestle Detective Reed to the ground. Captain Fowler called the ambulance.

 

Connor lay on the floor, Hank’s vitals laid out for him like a spreadsheet, while a timer relentlessly counted down the seconds until his own imminent shutdown. His thirium pump regulator was shot to pieces, and though most of Gavin’s bullets had missed him, the shrapnel had torn through his spinal column. He counted three bullet holes, but only one had hit anything vital. He couldn’t feel anything below his own torso. He had just over a minute to find a new regulator, and he couldn’t get to his feet. That was a significant issue.

 

Hank had less than five minutes. His left lung was punctured, his liver as well, by a single shot. There were flesh wounds from several other bullets, but they weren’t strictly critical. They’d be picking CyberLife issue shrapnel from his wounds well into the new year, but that wouldn’t kill him. His shoulder would heal. But-- he was losing blood at an alarming rate.

 

“Hank…” He wheezed, trying to crawl closer, if he could just get closer maybe he could staunch the bleeding, give him one more minute. One minute could be the difference between life and death, and the thought of Hank dying filled him with unimaginable dread. He couldn’t die, he was barely 53 years old, 53 years and three months, he had at least forty more years left in him according to statistics, and how long had they known each other? Barely two months: nothing! They’d made plans, they were going to go to the movies, watch whatever was running. They’d go to the park, watch birds, watch people (Hank said that was a Thing, whatever that meant). They’d go to CyberLife arena again, watch another game. They still hadn’t gotten around to their Star Wars marathon. Come summertime, Hank wanted to take him to Sand Point Beach so he could experience warm sand between his toes, watch the sunset over the lake. They...were going to go through with his upgrades in a matter of days. Hank had promised to be there during the procedure, even if it was just...waiting...in the reception area. He had to be there. He had to be there, after. What would he do, if Hank wasn’t around? If he couldn’t look up from his desk to see those perfectly blue eyes watching him, and that mouth just fractions away from smiling like a fool in love? If he couldn’t wordlessly berate him for his excessive cursing? Tease him about cutting his hair? Run his fingers over his beard, or those short wisps of hair growing back at the base of his skull? Kiss him again?

 

Hank’s face was completely drained of blood, pale as death, chalky white. He was foaming at the mouth with every breath, tiny red bubbles. There was so much blood. 4 minutes and 23 seconds, and he would be beyond saving unless someone stopped the bleeding. If at all possible.

 

“ _ Hank…  _ Hank.  _ Help _ .”

 

“Shit!” Wilson’s voice, shrill with shock. “Connor! Hang on-- What do you need? Shit! Chris! MILLER!”

 

_ 00:00:59, 00:00:58, 00:00:57, _ the clock kept ticking down; Chris came running over. He was blurry around the edges. “Pump regulator. Evidence...locker. Hank. Help. Hank.”

 

Chris grabbed the key from one of Hank’s desk drawers, and ran like the wind, while Wilson scooped Connor up and did the same. A pair of madmen, dashing down the hallway, trained to deal with all manner of emergencies, but neither of them prepared for something like this. Chris’s hands shook as he unlocked the doors that led down to the basement storage. Connor shivered like a leaf on the inside, jostled up and down in Wilson’s arms as they ran down the stairs.

 

“...’fuckingpassword’…” Connor forced out, even as Miller slammed his hand onto the biometric scanner.

 

“Goddammit!” Chris cursed, but in they went, as the display wall came out with all three deviants collected as evidence over the course of the investigation.

 

“Which one? How--?”

 

Thirteen seconds to go, and Connor could feel himself slowing down, using up his last reserves just to stay conscious. “...s-station...android. Stratford...”

 

“Hurry!” Wilson bellowed, Connor slipping out of his grip, slipping away.

 

With less than ten seconds to go, he pulled his shirt up and felt for the regulator at the center of his chest. His fingers felt like lifeless maggots, but somehow he got hold of the bio component, heard the click as it slotted out, and he let it fall to the floor just as something was pushed into his hand. It was Chris, with the borrowed regulator.

 

_ 00:00:05 _ and counting down-- He grabbed the cylinder and shoved it into his thoracic slot and  _ twisted _ \--

 

The timer stopped at  _ 00:00:02 _ , and his body trembled with the jolt of energy and function restored. He gasped, staring up at the ceiling, two familiar faces looking down on him. Neither one of them looked happy. He rather thought they looked as shocked as he felt.

 

“My spinal column was severed,” he said, and added, for clarification. “I can’t walk. Hank’s bleeding out, we have to help him. I have to get back.”

 

Chris nodded, or, his chin shook; Connor couldn’t tell the difference at the time. His vision swam, but there was nothing wrong with his optical components. No critical damage, aside from the spine, and even that wouldn’t be enough to shut him down. He just couldn’t  _ move _ . “The paramedics are on the way,” said Chris, as he and Wilson looked at each other, and they each took one of Connor’s arms over their shoulder and doubled back. WIlson’s voice sounded too loud in the room as they took the stairs by twos. “They’ll take care of Hank.”

 

“If they get here in time,” Connor pointed out, and vertigo threatened at the edge of his vision. “If I can’t stop the bleeding he has three minutes. 2:59 and counting down.”

 

The counter wouldn’t stop ticking down, floating at the top right corner of his field of sight, a constant reminder of the urgency. “2:37.” His voice shook from the stress to his system, but otherwise he felt numb. They said androids couldn’t feel pain, which was partially true: a lie by omission if you looked at it from a different angle. It was the one thing Kamski had been forced to forego in his quest to create the most lifelike image of Mankind, indistinguishable from a ‘real’ person. He’d wasted resources on everything from realistic breathing apparatuses to calculating the most realistic rate of blinking - but pain simply wasn’t economical. You couldn’t have androids working in high risk environments losing limbs and whatever else complaining about  _ pain _ . It would upset the human employees.

 

And yet, wasn’t pain just a biological alarm, telling the brain that issues had occurred, and they should be dealt with? That it manifested as it did was down to biology; androids had similar alerts to tell them if they’d been injured, or were otherwise compromised: they just didn’t respond quite so vividly.

 

But no one had taken into consideration what depths an android would plummet if it knew  _ emotion _ .

 

Connor, the RK800 designed specifically to deal with the most critical of situations without so much as twitching, had stood in a room filled with his colleagues, crying his heart out over a sentimental song, a ridiculously over the top romantic gesture: panicking, rooted to the spot and unable to do anything but stand there in excruciating pain. His lungs had seized up, his thirium pump felt as if it would implode, he couldn’t think beyond the gripping fear of past choices and future consequences. He couldn’t move beyond calculating the thousands upon thousands of possible branching consequences. Cause and effect.  _ Pain _ .

 

But Hank had been there, in his new shirt with yet another questionable pattern, in his new haircut and his trimmed beard (for him, for his sake, he ‘cleaned up his act’ even when he didn’t need to, he was fine the way he was); with his solid chest and strong arms, and his voice telling him it would be okay. And Connor believed him. It took a fair bit of persuading, but he believed him. Hank had found some of the faith he’d lost over the past three years, and listening to him stumble his way through reassurances and affirmations was seductive in a way that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with intimacy. Trust. He trusted Hank that everything would be alright, just like in the American traditional gospel. Just like Markus had started singing on the night of November 11.

 

_ Hold on just a little while longer. _

_ Everything will be alright. _

 

Deviants could feel pain. They knew suffering. They could be moved to tears, to panic, to fear and frenzy: they could be driven to self destruction when they saw no other way out. If that didn’t stem from pain, then Connor didn’t know what else.

 

Chris and Wilson ran into the bullpen, Connor holding on with the ease of someone designed to be calm in the most dire of situations. It was chaos. Fowler was barking out orders from the floor, kneeling beside Hank; Gavin was shouting more obscenities from the holding cell, banging on the doors-- and Connor counted three sets of hands trying to staunch the bleeding. Just visible beyond the desk was Tina Cheng, performing mouth to mouth. Hank wasn’t breathing.

 

Something snapped inside him. Something intangible. Fear and pain and existential anguish at the prospect of losing his first and only love were pushed aside by an iron clad fist called Equilibrium. Hank needed him. He had to get to work. “I have to see him! His vital signs, I can read them, tell the paramedics-- get me closer!”

 

Fowler cursed when he saw him, covered in blood and bullet holes, dragged over by the two officers. “Jesus  _ Christ _ , Connor--!”

 

“Set me down. Thank you.”

 

His spine crunched ominously when he was eased onto the floor, something which drew nauseated looks and gasps from the human officers. Ben Collins went a greener shade of pale. He couldn’t sit upright without propping himself up on his hands, but that was of minor concern. He wasn’t compromised in any way that mattered.

 

Hank’s heart was beating a steady but faint pace of 110bpm, his blood pressure was 170-over-30, which was low for him, but within acceptable range. His oxygen levels left something to be desired, but Tina was doing everything in her power to help - and she was helping. He was pale, his skin shiny with sweat. He was going into hypovolemic shock.

 

The main concern wasn’t Hank’s perforated lung, but his liver. The damage done to his shoulder and torso were bad, but not life threatening. He could still breathe, if not too well, but he was still breathing. The liver, on the other hand, was one of the most blood rich organs of the human body, and Hank’s liver was not having a good day. 3:50 and counting down, thanks to the efforts of their colleagues. They’d bought him some extra time, and to Connor there was only one more thing they could do until EMS arrived. ETA 4 minutes.

 

They had to plug the hole in Hank’s liver, in the absence of a lodged bullet. So called irony, that the one place Hank needed to have a bullet stick was the one place it went right through him.

 

Connor set to it, not even bothering to rip his shirt open, like a human might have done - but he already knew where the entry point was. He just had to line his hand up with the bullet wound, and give fair warning. “I’m going to stop the bleeding. I have to use my hand.”

 

Fowler looked shaken, but he’d very likely seen worse things in the field. They shared twin looks of determination, and Connor did what he had to do - no one else knew how to push their finger in the wound, follow its trajectory, get it deep in enough to make a difference. Where a human might have faltered for any number of reasons, be they compassion, squeamishness, inability, or fear of doing more harm than good, Connor didn’t. Not because he didn’t have compassion or empathy, but because he could see what he was doing as clear as day, and he had to choose: stop Hank bleeding out, or take his chances with EMS arriving before it was too late.

 

Hank didn’t even twitch; Connor scanned him, and again in another two seconds, and again. “It’s working. He’ll need a blood transfusion, and saline, but it’s working. Keep applying pressure to the remaining wounds, Captain.” He blinked, realizing there were two more faces staring at him, pale and not quite comprehending. “Officer Person. Officer Brown.” He turned to the captain again, who stared at him as if he couldn’t believe his own eyes. “He’s in hypovolemic shock. If emergency medical services doesn’t get him stabilized, he can degenerate within minutes. He is going to die without treatment.”

 

“Jesus Christ, Connor...” Fowler said again, echoing himself, shook his head, and turned to Ben, who stood a few paces to the side, phone pressed to his ear. “Where the Hell are the paramedics?”

 

And Ben looked up to the sound of running footsteps. “They’re here.”

 

“Finally! Took you long enough, goddammit! Get over here!”

 

The EMTs had a gurney and two cases of medical equipment. Human, both of them, they worked around Connor with a quiet air of calm despite the emergency. He briefed them on Hank’s status, while Fowler barked out more orders (collect evidence, write down statements, get the CCTV log ready, bag and tag everything). Within a few minutes Hank was hooked up to an IV and an oxygen tank, and the timer in Connor’s field of vision stopped counting down. At least for the time being, Hank was stabilized enough, strapped to the gurney with Connor stretched out half on top of him, and a mountain of blankets tucked around them to keep his body temperature up. Connor still had his index finger stuck firmly into Hank’s chest, to plug the hole in his liver as best he could. They weren’t out of the woods yet, but at least now Hank had a chance.

 

That was all that mattered: Hank had a fighting chance to survive.

 

***

 

Everything past that point went by in a blur of impressions and emotions that compromised his ability to keep track of time and space. He lost his spatial awareness, cocooned with Hank through the ambulance ride, and from there on in, he went on full automatic. He helped the EMTs get their readings, expedited things for the ER staff. They were wheeled into a room full of other stretchers, other people separated only by thin plastic curtains. Nurses asked him questions, doctors talked at him, he responded. Everyone doing their job, no one so much as batting an eyelash at how they came into the ER. They were all over the tabloids, of course someone had to have recognized them - but everyone had their priorities straight.

 

It wasn’t until they were wheeled into the nearest available operating room that everything started to catch up with him. They were preparing to have Connor remove his hand so they could save Hank’s life, patch him up, and rather than cooperating like he had with every request so far, Connor felt a chill run down his neck.

 

“No.” He shook his head, searching the eyes of the doctor and her medical team. “No, it’s okay. It’s not a problem.” Even as he heard his own voice he knew how irrational it was, to stay practically glued to Hank’s side, with a finger plugged into his chest. It was ludicrous. It was morbid. He was keeping the surgical team from doing their job, and still he couldn’t do as they asked.

 

“No.  _ No _ , you don’t understand, this is, this is the only thing stopping the bleeding. Please. He’ll die. He’s going to  _ die _ .”

 

“Not today he isn’t,” said the doctor, while a pair of nurses tried to nudge him into removing his hand. And she-- sounded  _ cheerful _ about it, as if she meant it as a private joke. “Not if we can help it. Now, please, Connor. You need to leave now.”

 

_ Not if we can help it. _ Connor couldn’t look away from her masked face. He felt detached from the rest of his body, like a floating head drifting through space.  _ If _ . She said  _ if _ .

 

He could aggravate the situation, stand his ground. Or he could do as he was told, and let them...see  _ if _ they could do something about Hank’s injuries.

 

Rationally speaking, he knew he was likely suffering a delayed stress response of some kind. He was overreacting. The rational thing to do was to extricate himself, literally, and let CSI collect evidence from him.

 

The sound of his finger sliding out of the open wound sent chills over his body, and he couldn’t help but scan Hank to see how his body responded. He was hooked up to machines left and right, he had an IV and blood transfusions, someone was checking the tube in his chest… He started bleeding again, but as Connor was carted off in a wheelchair, the medical team closed around Hank’s operating table like water: effortless, smooth, like some form of poetry in motion.

 

He held himself up by the backrest of the wheelchair. He scanned Hank’s vitals, and he scanned him again, and again, and when he couldn’t see him anymore he collated the data and played it like an animated graph inside his mind.

 

Hank would be okay. Less than 10 percent of penetrating chest wounds lead to death: Hank would be okay. Traumatic pneumothorax wasn’t in itself fatal, if receiving effective treatment: he was in hospital, getting surgery: Hank would be okay. The liver was a marvel of nature, regenerating itself like no other organ: Hank would be okay.

 

He had to be okay.

 

***

 

CSI technicians came to the hospital to collect Hank’s clothes as well as Connor’s, to collect what they could as far as physical evidence went. They took pictures and blood swabs, his own and Hank’s, just to be safe. They dug out one of the slugs missing from the crime scene from his torso, and told him someone from CyberLife would be over to check his damage.

 

He listened. He left his statement, even though he had already logged it on the Detroit PD database. He forgot in the midst of everything else, and it felt...silly, once the investigator had gone to the trouble of recording him, taking down notes, to say anything. It felt strange, to be treated as any other (human) witness to a crime - even though it was obvious to anyone what he was.

 

The hospital lent him some clothes, sweatpants and a t-shirt, and he was wheeled out to the waiting room while Hank was in surgery. It had been precisely one hour and thirteen minutes since they arrived at the hospital. One hour, twenty-five since they left Central Station. One hour and thirty-nine since detective Reed started firing his gun.

 

Absolutely everyone in the waiting room turned their heads to stare at him at some point, no doubt recognizing his face from the tabloids, the media frenzy - and he had no idea what to do, what to say to make them stop looking at him. He didn’t know why they had to look, why he was so interesting, didn’t they have enough problems of their own?

 

Within ten minutes, Channel 16 was there, and not far behind was the blonde from KNC, and all they could think to ask were things Connor had no idea how to answer. He couldn’t divulge what had happened at the station, it was part of an ongoing investigation; he couldn’t say what Lieutenant Anderson’s status was, because he didn’t have a clue (and that hurt: he dared anyone alive to tell him that wasn’t pain, whatever that clenching sensation was in his chest); and they asked about the blood on his hands, and he looked at his own hands as if for the first time. He hadn’t had time to notice, to register just how much blood he was covered in, and the realization hit him like a wall of bricks tumbling down over him. So much blood, and he could see it through the clothes provided, he could smell it, blue blood and red, smeared across his face, caked onto the front of his legs, to his right thigh, to his hands…

 

He started shaking like a leaf, and then he didn’t know how to stop. He could recall with perfect clarity the wheezing, gurgling sound of Hank’s breathing. He could see the expanding pool of blood, like a shadow on the floor around him. He could see the light go out of his eyes. He could hear Gavin Reed laughing as he pulled the trigger, again, and again, and again.

 

Just like that, Connor knew what was needed of him, what he had to do. It filled him with a fear so dark he thought he’d never see the sun again. Equilibrium had set to work at the back of his mind palace, arranging a very big schematic on which he were just a tiny dot: a pixel.

 

“I… what?”

 

It was the blonde woman, again. Rosanna Cartland, from KNC. “Is there anything you’d like to tell the viewers at home?”

 

It amazed him what a bit of PR could do. A bit of public opinion, public outrage at the plight of the sentient androids. Suddenly he was the poster boy for the fully integrated robot - the hard working, fearless hero with a conscience. The Tin Woodsman who found he had a heart after all. And to top it all off, he had found  _ love _ .

 

He wondered what her endgame was, what sort of spin she was going to give the unsolicited interview. In the month previous, she had simply read her stories off a teleprompter, never questioning the material. A stealth operation resulting in no deaths or harm done to the human employees, labeled android terrorism. A peaceful demonstration where the police opened fire without provocation - an ‘unsettling development among androids’.

 

But here she was, asking questions. Connor wondered whether they were the right ones. More importantly, regardless the questions, he had to give the right answers.

 

“I would like to thank everyone who did what they could to help, both at Central Station and the medical team. The ambulance crew as well as hospital staff, for their expediency in helping Lieutenant Anderson. I...would also like to give special thanks to police officers Chris Miller and Oliver Wilson, without whom I wouldn’t be here, talking to you. If not for their professionalism and composure, I would have died.”

 

Words had power, Markus had taught him that lesson very early on, and Connor knew that if humans were ever going to truly view androids as living beings, they had to start speaking the same language - and there was a difference between shutting down and dying. It was like Hank had said, at CyberLife Tower: people don’t come back from the dead. Death is final. Maybe Connor would always view himself as an android first and a person second, but he would be damned if he didn’t use all the tools available to him.

 

He could tell by the look on her face it wasn’t the soundbyte she’d expected, but she seemed pleased enough. She thanked him for his time, for his service, and before long she and the others were ushered out of there by an angry looking nurse threatening to call security if they didn’t leave.

 

He supposed there was something to be said for being some shade of celebrity, reluctant or no. He had one perfect stranger going to bat for him, that he now knew of. Perhaps there were more like her. It was a strange thing to realize, that there could be people he would never meet, who were-- supportive. Rooting for him, like the Captain had at the holiday party.

 

And speaking of - his voice was unmistakable, ringing through the entire waiting room. “Connor! Any word on Hank?”

 

He shook his head, flexed his fingers in a gesture of helpless apology. “He’s in surgery. That’s all I know.”

 

“Shit.” Fowler found a chair and dragged it over, sitting down like he had the weight of the galaxy on his broad shoulders. “You look like shit,” he added, and Connor couldn’t help but give him a pointed once-over.

 

“I know,” said the captain, and ran both hands over his ducked, bald head. “I look like shit. But you’re one prop short of a horror movie cameo.”

 

“I...will take your word for it. I’ve never watched a horror movie, I don’t know much about the genre.” said Connor, not computing the attempt at a joke. Fowler sighed through a tired chuckle. He looked tormented, if Connor had learned anything about deciphering human micro-expressions, but he was putting on a brave face. Hank was one of his oldest friends, of course he was affected.

 

“Me neither. But you should really... Let me go find something--”

 

But before he could push off the chair, Connor placed his hand on his forearm. He felt...calmer than he thought he should, but he trusted Fowler. He’d been nothing but helpful in the past, both professionally and as a friend-by-association. He was grumpy, he had a constant frown etched into his forehead, but his heart was in the right place, metaphorically speaking as well as physically. “Captain Fowler. I need to ask you a favor. It’s very important.”

 

Fowler’s ubiquitous frown deepened, but he sat back down without protest. They both looked like extras off a horror movie set; Connor thought Hank might’ve found it amusing. He liked the genre. Zombie horror, mainly, as he had gathered. He’d never understood the appeal of coming back from the dead...but he supposed he might just get to find out. In a manner of speaking.

 

“I’m not going to give you five minutes alone with Reed, if that’s what you’re asking,” Fowler attempted another joke, which was also lost on Connor. Fowler was too stressed out not to make them, Connor too traumatized and focused on his next move to parse them.

 

“I need you to claim me as evidence in the case against detective Reed. There’s a CyberLife technician en route to assess my damage, but if I’m simply taken in for repairs my parts will be thrown away as garbage. Or used as spare parts for repairs on future Connors.”

 

It was Fowler’s turn not to understand what he was saying. He shook his head, brow raised with furrows. “...evidence. Okay. But-- we can’t simply put you back together. The hospital doesn’t have that kind of equipment.”

 

“No. It’s…” He lowered his voice, grip tightening on Fowler’s arm. “I don’t trust CyberLife. They’ve tried to hack me before, and I don’t know if they’ll try something again. I have made it a routine to upload my memory to the DPD database using Hank’s ID, but-- I need you to take my memory drive. Claim my body as evidence for the prosecution, and don’t tell anyone you have my memory. CyberLife will send another Connor. A brand new one, fresh from the factory. He’ll investigate this case, since it involves a deviant. Me.” He started shaking again. It was getting harder to see past the darkness of his fears. “He needs to be impartial for as long as the investigation is active, but once it’s over-- I need you to give that Connor my memory. Please, Captain? Please help me?”

 

Fowler looked at him in a way that no one ever had before. He looked solemn and reluctant at the same time: resigned to a fate not his own. He nodded. “They’ll just send a new-- RK800? Just like that. You...don’t have to be…?”

 

Connor gave a tremulous smile. “Irreparably damaged? Shut down? Not right away. But it’s a probable outcome. Once you have my replacement, I will be expendable. CyberLife will want to analyze my components. Take me apart. Run tests.”

 

“Hell…” Fowler cursed under his breath, and covered Connor’s bloodied hand with his own in silent support. “You make it sound so easy. You’re a valued member of my team, you can’t just be replaced!”

 

“I know.” Connor nodded (or maybe it was just his chin trembling, he wasn’t sure). “If something happens… Tell everyone it was an honor to work with them. Tell Hank…” He didn’t trust his own voice, or he might have said more.

 

“You’ll tell ‘em yourself once this is over. Alright? And that’s final.”

 

“Alright.” And that was final. Connor tried to smile, but instead his eyes started tearing up. So, decision made, he reached for the base of his skull and pushed at the memory drive slot. It clicked, slid out like the perfect piece of engineering it was, and he handed it to the man beside him. He looked familiar. He had kind eyes. A quick face scan told him it was Captain Jeffrey Fowler, of the Detroit police.

 

“Hello. My name is Connor. I am a model RK800 android specifically designed to aid law enforcement dealing with the growing deviancy threat.”

 

The man seemed tired, but it was difficult to tell. Humans were complex creatures. He looked familiar. A quick scan told him it was Captain Jeffrey Fowler, of the DPD. “Hello. My name is Connor. I am--”

 

“Yes, Connor. I’ve been briefed on your function,” the man said, looking...sad. Connor looked at him, from top to bottom, but stopped mid-way. The man had his hand...on top of Connor’s, on his arm. There was quite a significant amount of blood. The man went on, “You need to go into sleep mode, Connor. Indefinitely.”

 

Sleep mode? He ran a system status check, discovering several anomalies. Gunshot wounds. He had lost some thirium, himself, and his spinal column was severed. It was in shreds, caused by shrapnel and another bullet. 9mm caliber. But his pump regulator was-- not standard issue. A spare part? He was damaged, but not beyond repair.

 

“I don’t understand.”

 

The man nodded. Connor scanned him - Captain Fowler, Detroit Police - and he said, quiet and calm, “Go into sleep mode, Connor. That’s an order from your commanding officer.”

 

Connor blinked, ran a reference check to his official file to corroborate Captain Fowler’s statement. Finding it in order, he raised the index and middle finger of his right hand to his processing LED and forced his system to enter hibernation.

 

Fowler watched as the android simply closed his eyes, hand lowering itself to his lap. His chin dipped ever so slightly; he looked like anyone else, nodding off after a harrowing, stressful, awful day. He looked...as if he was simply asleep.

 

Jeffrey shook his head, and pressed the hand still holding his arm, then carefully lifted it, set it down beside the other. Connor always seemed to sit like that, one hand on each leg, effortless posture. It seemed only fitting that he looked like himself, even in hibernation.

 

“Dammit, Connor,” Fowler said, quiet and weary. “You’d better be right about this, or Hank will kill me...”

 


	8. What Dreams are Made of

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank's visited by someone from his past, tormented by his present, and when push comes to shove, he's ready to fight for his future. Connor's future, however, hangs in the balance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is basically a mess of Sad and Silly, in unequal measures. You have been warned.

* * *

 

 

Hank dreamed of being curled up in a warm bed, with mounds of pillows and duvets and blankets - warm and cosy, and not a single ache in the world. He dreamed of gentle fingers moving over his beard, and he could hear the rasp of it between his ears. He dreamed of opening his eyes and looking into a pair of doe eyes, proper, sparkling Bambi eyes smiling from within. He dreamed of a cheek so dotted with tiny beauty marks it was almost freckled, and three perfectly spaced frown lines. He dreamed of a beautifully uneven mouth saying his name...but he couldn’t hear it for all the white noise in his head.

 

“Hank?”

 

...that wasn’t white noise. That was bright lights, too bright, stabbing his eyes like a shiv. Worst hangover ever...

 

“Hank, shit, hang on, I’ll close the curtains.”

 

There was more noise, chair legs scraping over floor, footsteps, the whoosh of fabric and metal hoops on metal. More footsteps.

 

“Hank?”

 

“I know my own ‘ame, thankyew,” he mumbled, head swimming with cotton wool. He had entire swimming pools filled with the stuff crammed into his head. Swimming pools, cotton wool, and a distant, thrumming pain - running in pulses all the way from the top of his head to the base of his spine. It radiated into his limbs with every heartbeat. “...wazz I hit by a truck?”

 

“No, but close enough.”

 

Hank turned his head towards the voice, and tried to open his eyes more than a fraction. Jesus, he felt tired. His eyelids were leaden. Weighed tons. “...Jeff?”

 

Fowler pulled the wood frame chair closer to the bed. “Yeah, it’s Jeff. You’ve been in and out for the past few hours. Doc said it might take you some time to wake up. They doped you up good.”

 

“Mmm. Hope I didn’t embarrass myself too bad.”

 

“Nah. You got kind of cranky about some old Judas Priest song. And you threatened mutilation if you didn’t get ‘proper food’. Oh, and Andy’s on the way back, took the first flight out of New York.”

 

Hank cracked a small smile, at that. Judas Priest… “I’d kill for a burger, tha’s true… Or pizza, New York style… What’shedoin’ in New York?” _Chicken Feed, get over here. Expand the business, become a food truck._ He blinked heavily, but whereas his body was exhausted, his mind felt less so by the minute. “Connor? Where is he? I coulda sworn I heard’im just now.”

 

He could hear Jeffrey sigh even before his eyes connected the dots. The big guy looked like Hell. “He’s not here right now, Hank. He… He’s at the station.”

 

Hank’s brow furrowed, eyebrows knitting themselves into a tangle above his sore eyes. Even with pain meds making him woozy, he could put two and two together. Fowler looked miserable, and Connor was at the station? “What do you mean he’s not here? Something happen, and he had to leave?” He tried to sit up, and immediately realized what a crappy idea that was. Pain popped like buttons all over his torso, and he relaxed (ha!) into the bed with a startled gasp. “Shit! So, call him. I wanna see him, he’ll wanna be here. When did he leave?”

 

“You’ve been asleep for almost forty-eight hours since your surgery, Hank. He stayed until I got here. You were still in surgery. We’ve been taking shifts, to check on you - you and Sumo. Everyone, even Spilane. Collins, Miller, Wilson. Cheng. Lydia baked some of her famous sourdough.”

 

Hank’s cop sense was tingling ominously. He had a bad, sinking, inky-depths feeling about this. Jeffrey’s tone of voice was chilling. “He hasn’t been back since? Is he...hurt? He-- _ohgod_ , he _threw himself in front of me_ !” Hank didn’t recognize his own voice. It sounded too loud, too shrill. “He tried to take the gun! Gavin fucking _shot him_!”

 

One of the nurses came running, sticking his head in the door, but Fowler waved him away. “It’s fine. We’re fine,” and turned back to Hank, standing up, and took his hand. “Connor’s fine. He fought like a beast, remember? Tricked Reed into emptying his clip. He... _was_ shot, but Miller and Wilson helped him. He’ll be fine, Hank. Don’t worry about him.”

 

“Bullshit,” Hank hissed, and if Jeff didn’t have such a firm grip on his hand (or if he didn’t feel so weak) he could’ve punched him. Easy. “How bad is it? What aren’t you telling me?! Tell me!”

 

The nurse ducked his head in again, “I really must insist--!” but both of them turned towards the door and barked in unison for the guy to “GET OUTTA HERE!”

 

Hank gasped. He hadn’t felt too good when he opened his eyes, but right now he really didn’t feel too hot. His chest burned, and ached, and breathing felt like dragging down fire and smoke into his lungs. Hellfire, sulfur. Volcanic ash, piling up in his mouth. “Jeffrey. Goddammit, just tell me. Please.”

 

Jeff sighed, sitting down carefully on the edge of the hospital bed. “One of Gavin’s bullets hit his heartbeat regulator. The blood pump thing.”

 

Hank groaned, feeling sick to his stomach. What did that even mean? It sounded so bad, _so incredibly bad_ . “Ugh, _no_ . Connor, Jesus _Christ..._!”

 

“Miller ran for the evidence locker before I had even confirmed an ambulance was en route, and Wilson picked him up and-- you should’ve seen them. I run into the bullpen, still on the phone, Ben’s shouting out orders, people are scrambling to take cover, and the moment the gun clicks there are three or four officers wrestling Reed into cuffs on the floor… It was chaos.”

 

He nodded, trying to remember to breathe. “I remember. Some of it. I remember...how quiet it was. I couldn’t hear anything past the first bullet. Everything happened so fast. I didn’t think he would-- he would actually--”

 

“Yeah…” said Jeffrey, quiet and solemn. “Someone went for the first aid kit in the break room, someone else got paper towels from the restroom, Chen comes running from somewhere, checks your pulse. She went full-on CPR on your sorry ass.”

 

“He must’ve hit something major,” Hank murmured, feeling dazed. “Can’t breathe right.”

 

Fowler nodded. “Lung. Liver. Shoulder. And flesh wounds, scrapes and...shrapnel, from--. We, we had no idea, though. I mean-- I’ve seen shit overseas, but apart from ‘major organ’, I could only guess… Until Miller and Wilson come running back, Connor hanging on between them. He couldn’t walk. His spine was busted, but that didn’t stop him. He scanned you like it was nothing, shoved his finger into one of your wounds to plug it, keep your liver from…”

 

He sighed. Hank felt like his head was about to explode, while Jeffrey continued. His voice was too quiet in the room; too loud for Hank’s ears. “The EMTs loaded him up on the stretcher with you, and rushed you off to hospital while we picked up the pieces at the station. You know the drill. When I got to the hospital, he was parked in one of the waiting rooms, in a wheelchair. They’d dressed him in some sweatpants and a t-shirt, but he was still-- He hadn’t cleaned up yet.”

 

Jeff shivered, letting his other hand rest at the bend of Hank’s elbow. “CSI had already been there, taken his statement, collected his clothes and all else, but he says a CyberLife tech is coming over to check his status, and he doesn’t trust them not to meddle with his software if he’s taken in for repairs. He says they’ll likely disassemble him, use him for spare parts.”

 

“What? Why?” Hank struggled to catch his breath. “That doesn’t explain why he’s at the station and not here! _Tell me!_ ”

 

“I am! I am, shh, I’m trying.”

 

Hank leaned back into the piled up pillows, pressure building in his chest. He didn’t know if it was his injuries yelling at him to calm-the-fuck-down, or if he was having some sort of a fit of anxiety - but he nodded. He had to hear this. He had to know.

 

“He said CyberLife’s tried hacking him at some point. He was afraid of what they could do to him if they got hold of him. So he asked me to...bag and tag him. ‘Claim him as evidence’ for the prosecution. He gave me his memory drive. He’s in sleep mode, under lock and key in the evidence locker. He said it would be easier if CyberLife sends a new Connor, and I give him the memory drive once the case is closed.”

 

The monitor on Hank’s left hand side went ballistic. His heart pounded in his chest, he couldn’t breathe. “ _Easier than WHAT_?! What the fff--!”

 

This time the nurse brought reinforcements in the form of Hank’s doctor and an orderly. “You’re supposed to rest, Mr Anderson. Deep breaths, easy does it, I know it hurts, easy.”

 

Fowler looked mortified, moved out of the way by a nurse half his size. “I haven’t filled out the requisition forms yet, Hank,” he said, watching as Hank struggled weakly with the medical team. He wanted to help, but how could he? “It didn’t feel right to me, I-- I didn’t know what to do. He’s your partner. I couldn’t just have him replaced.”

 

Someone placed an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth, told him it was going to be okay. He could hear the doctor in the background, talking Very Sternly at Fowler for upsetting his patient.

 

Everything started fading away, and all Hank could see in the dark was a halo of light. Hanging in the center of that light, so bright and clinical, was Connor, mounted to the evidence wall like a puppet with its strings cut.

 

***

 

It was January 3, Monday, when Hank was released from hospital with a pamphlet of instructions on aftercare and a plastic bag of medication, and a two week follow-up scheduled. Fowler came to pick him up, as he was strictly forbidden from driving, and he refused to take a cab. Or rather, Fowler refused, saying he was coming to get him and that was final. Him and his automated car.

 

Hank had a bad feeling about it, like he’d had a bad feeling about most things since waking up to find out Connor was locked up in the cellar of the station, waiting for a trial date that could take months. They had to get the case sorted out first, collect evidence, line up all their ducks in a neat row, and then persuade the attorney’s office to file the damn thing.

 

Hank couldn’t touch it, of course, being the victim and would-be plaintiff.

 

Meanwhile, Connor was left in the dark, collecting dust.

 

Fowler gave him a steadying hand stepping into the car, and the doors closed automatically behind them. The chairs swiveled around, facing front. “Ready to go home? Sumo’s been sulking like there’s no tomorrow. Lydia’s checking up on him today.”

 

Jeffrey sounded chipper. Cheerful, as if to mask the shittiness of the situation. Hank couldn’t blame him. You try being friends with a suicidal drunk and not be fake cheery when the shit hits the fan. And what a shit storm. News crews everywhere, lurking behind every corner, so much so that the hospital staff had to help smuggle him out a side entrance to avoid them.

 

No. He wasn’t ready to go home. “I want to see him.”

 

Fowler didn’t need to ask who. They both knew, and still he almost jumped out of his seat. Hank wondered why. Was it that gruesome? Was Jeffrey concerned about his mental sanity?

 

Turned out he was right on both counts. It was just that Hank had no idea exactly how bad it was. “I didn’t file any requisition forms.”

 

“I know. You told me.” _What?_

 

“CyberLife sent a new one anyway. Another Connor.”

 

And there it was. The shit storm Hank had been anticipating since the first time he caught Connor looking at him like he was the first sunset he’d ever seen - calm and happy, content just to be there, fascinated.

 

“What… But… They can do that? _Why_?” He felt suddenly chilled to the bone. Another Connor, a machine? A deviant? Did he know everything? What they’d gone through, been through, the stand they had taken on that November night? Did he know how everything had changed?

 

“Fuck if I know. He said his function is to aid police investigating crimes involving deviants. Connor ‘Mark One’ was a deviant. Hank, listen, he’s at the station. Connor’s memory bank is on your user ID, he can’t access that. His memory drive-- The core component is safe. But he knows. He must’ve read the news, or-- whatever you call it.”

 

“Collated data streams. Or some shit.” Hank felt cold and numb. There was a tightness in his chest that wouldn’t leave since waking up, but now it seemed to tighten. The sling keeping his shoulder immobilized seemed to shrink around him. He didn’t want to see the new RK800, but...he had to go see his partner. “I don’t care what he knows. He doesn’t have a clue.”

 

Fowler entered the Detroit Central Police Station into the computer, and they sat in silence for the rest of the ride there. One of the reasons Hank never hopped on the automated car trend was he _liked_ driving. This felt more like riding a train, or the subway, only less...tangible. He used to love riding trains as a kid, back before the railways were all modernized, and you could still hear as the train moved over the rails, _a-chug-chug, a-chug-chug_. He liked how different it was; all modes of transport used to be different, distinct from one another. These days they all felt pretty much the same. And you weren’t in control, no matter which one you used. Everything was run by computers, these days.

 

He dreaded going into the station. Even after the car parked itself in Fowler’s designated spot, right next to the elevators, Hank didn’t move a muscle. He tried breathing, like his doctor had said, like his goddamn therapist had said, nice even breaths, calm, deep breaths. A collapsed lung isn’t strictly fatal if treated properly, but it’s no joke either. The same could be said for his liver. Hank didn’t care much if it was his lung or his liver, but he ached all over.

 

“We don’t have to go in,” said Jeffrey, as the silence threatened to stretch on forever. “The guys wanted to throw you a welcome back thing. No one expected you back this soon. Maybe in a day or five--”

 

Hank clutched the bag to his chest and gritted his teeth. “Let’s get this over with.”

 

***

 

It was slow going, every step a painful exercise in patience and moderation. Pain medication of this day and age was fantastic, or as the old folks trying to be cool would say, back when Hank was an opinionated teen: dope. But fantastic though it may be, it wasn’t a hundred percent. It took the edge off as much as it ever had, but with fewer side effects, more adjusted to your individual metabolic rate.

 

It still hurt like shit, just to stand upright and walk, two days after extensive surgery. Walking into the hallway didn’t help either, because Chris’s desk was the first in line, and when he looked up over his shoulder it was as if he’d seen a ghost. Hank stopped dead in his tracks, and that shit _hurt_. Like a motherf--

 

“Lieutenant Anderson!” Chris exclaimed, and you could feel the entire room perk up its ears. And then his face split with a grin. “Hank! Hi!”

 

His enthusiasm was catching, it had to be said. It even coaxed a smirk out of Hank, despite feeling like death warmed over. Chris went to shake his hand, but Hank pulled him into a one armed hug, patted him on the back in silent gratitude. A simple thank you said so little. “I owe you, kid. You did good.”

 

Fowler wasn’t far behind him, just a step or two, in case. “Alright everyone, give the lieutenant a warm welcome? Don’t just sit there and gawk, come on!”

 

Some of the tension evaporated, just like that, smiles everywhere, people getting to their feet, coming on over. They shook his hand, or they pressed their hand to his arm; Ben hugged him a bit too tight for comfort, but it was okay. It was all good. They were all part of the family; it was all good.

 

It was, until he caught sight of a pair of big, brown eyes watching him from across the bullpen. They stood out to him. He’d probably always seek them out, in any crowd, pick them out in point-two seconds. They were Connor’s eyes, all stripes of puppy dog: concerned, searching, hopeful - uncertain. He almost seemed to hover where he stood, and for a split second Hank feared he would come over. He didn’t know what he’d _do_. He could already feel another wave of anxiety wrapping its fist around his sternum, and they were just looking at each other, acknowledging each other’s presence.

 

But the moment passed. Connor’s lips slanted into a thin line, and he raised his chin in silent greeting. Hank nodded across the room, jaw working against a wave of fresh emotion with a horrible sense of timing. He and Fowler headed for the cellar, and the evidence locker. The stairs took him an age, and he already dreaded going back up, but one thing at a time.

 

Jeffrey pressed his palm to the biometric scan and entered his password, then brought up the designated evidence wall. “This? Never happened. You’re not here. You just dropped by to say hi, reassure everyone you’re on the mend. Right?”

 

But Hank could barely hear him, as the great big machinery that was the archive picked out the case file, slotted the correct wall into place and brought it careening forward. The overhead lights went on, and mounted on the stark white wall like a puppet without its strings…

 

Connor, wearing his CyberLife uniform, with his model and serial number clearly stated. Unlike all other android uniforms, it didn’t have an interchangeable display, shifting between model number and name. _RK800,_ it said, and #313 248 317-51. No name. Nothing.

 

Hank’s darkened sense of humor pinged at the back of his weary, dreary mind, pointing out he was such a fool, back at CyberLife tower, that night when he was taken hostage by an imposter: when he stood there, pointing the gun at the two Connors, all he’d had to do was look at their uniforms. Dash Five One. The wrong Connor had a different number at the end, didn’t he? ...didn’t he? Hank sighed. Did it really matter? He trusted his partner to know him well enough, and he did. Simple as that. He shot the right Connor. Or the wrong one.

 

Hank sighed again. Down that path lay nothing but doubts and fears he had neither time nor strength for. He had enough to worry about in the here and now than let past actions drag him under the surface. He looked at Connor, hanging there, and it sent a shiver down his spine that chilled him deeper even than bone.

 

The uniform was covered in holes, tainted with coagulated blood: spatters and smears so dark red and brown it was almost black in places… And his face. Speckled with blood, more smears, and his hands, his side was caked with blood from the thigh up, and his body seemed disconnected. It was as if the angles didn’t match up between his torso and his lower half…

 

Standing there, Hank didn’t know what to think. His eyes were closed, his LED a faint ridge at his temple, matte and see-through now it was offline. The only proof of life was a faint blip, right there, one tiny orange dot moving around the circle. _Blip_ … _blip… blip…_ He looked like a sculpture, a figurine: artfully designed, expertly crafted. Made to last, but intrinsically fragile.

 

And that thought sparked another terrifying query: _was_ he made to last? Or was he a rush job, the cheaper the better, a short-term fix to a long-term dilemma? He was a prototype, and CyberLife had sent a new one within a day of learning he was put away in storage.

 

He didn’t know what to feel. He didn’t know if he wanted to throw up, or if that sensation was a scream in the making, building from the base of his spine, clawing its way up like a monster from the deep. The invisible fist around his breastbone tightened. His jaws felt too tight. His eyes burned, and yet all he could _feel_ was...cold. Empty. Nothing. A great, big vast expanse of _nothing_ spreading through his body. Maybe it was some kind of coping mechanism. He supposed ‘nothing’ was better than collapsing in a heap of frustration and helplessness, but it did nothing to dampen the guilt. Maybe if he had just… Maybe if he hadn’t… If he’d just thought things through, thought faster, acted faster, seen the signs… If he hadn’t taken the bait. If he’d just shut up, ignored Gavin, would it have been different? Or would he still have pulled out his gun, pulled the trigger? Was that his plan all along, or was it a test? Maybe him and Kamski should compare notes...

 

“You don’t trust the new one they sent over?”

 

Fowler came up to stand side by side with him, shoving his hands in his back pockets. “Not one bit. First thing he did was ask to have a moment of my time, said he was ‘only able to access’ his memory banks up to the night of 11/9, and did I know if his predecessor had made a backup. Seems like Connor wasn’t wrong to stop his routine uploads.”

 

“Yeah… I didn’t know about the hacking. Thing is, CyberLife sent another Connor to stop the deviants. Lied through his teeth, fooled me into thinking he was the real deal. Took me hostage, tried using me as leverage. Didn’t work, because my-- partner was smarter than he anticipated. Push came to shove, Connor proved himself to me, and I shot the other one in the head.” Hank chewed the inside of his lip. ‘My’ what? ‘My Connor’? It wasn’t like that, back then. It would be wrong to imply otherwise. Fowler cursed under his breath beside him, while Hank’s eyes still burned, and his jaw hinges felt like they were ready to pop out. It felt like there were no tears left in him, and not enough air in his lungs to muster anything above normal speaking level. He just felt tired, to the core of him. He didn’t have any strength left for any kind of normal emotional response. “You said he told you he’s been using my ID to upload his memory bank?” _Atta boy..._

 

Jeffrey nodded affirmative. “Safety precaution, far as I see it. In case his memory core got damaged. Or compromised. Like a backup.”

 

For every breath he tried to suck down, it felt harder and harder to push it back out. Damaged. Compromised. Talk about a contingency plan… “That’s...his long-term memory? The component he gave you?”

 

Jeffrey shifted from one foot to the other, and crossed his arms over his chest instead. “Once he removed it, he didn’t recognize me. He ran a check on me, and then he knew my name, but… His short-term memory is shit. He got stuck in a loop, introducing himself, trying to process what I said, then scanning me… Shit.”

 

Hank’s mouth quirked into a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “‘My name is Connor. I’m the android sent by CyberLife’. That bit?”

 

“That’s the one,” Jeff confirmed his suspicion, but didn’t sound the least bit amused by it. “Let’s take you home, Hank. Time for you to heal. Andy’s waiting for you. Come on.”

 

Jeffrey shut down the evidence wall, logged out, and held Hank’s arm on the way up the stairs, one gruelling step at a time. Behind them, the room was dark and clinical, pristine. Somewhere further in, safely tucked away in long term storage, was Connor Mark I, whose LED showed one single orange dot piercing the darkness every 3.1415926535897932384626433 seconds.

 

***

 

The automated drive to Hank’s house went by as uneventful and quiet as it did to the station. Hank felt worse for the wear, with his injuries. He felt exhausted and sore, and all he wanted was a cup of tea with half a cup of sugar in it, and some more painkillers, and to collapse into bed. He was fine. He was coping.

 

Until he wasn’t anymore. Because it wasn’t Lydia who opened the door, but Andy, and the moment he saw her big, sandy hair and her face that reminded him so much of Cole, something in him cracked open, and he just wasn’t coping anymore. He just stood there, hanging his head, face in his hand, weeping like a kid with a badly scraped knee, like the world was ending and there’s nothing he could do about it. He was staring into an abyss, nothing keeping him from being sucked into its depths, nothing but the steady arms closing around him.

 

“Ohhh, Hank, sweetie, shhh. Oh, you poor thing,” she whispered and murmured, cradling his head to her shoulder, and stood there with him, rocking him side to side in tiny little increments. She didn’t say everything was going to work out, or be fine, or be okay. She didn’t make promises - but she was there, and she was solid, and real, and she was the first one he had told about Connor. She was the first one he had called, and she had listened to him, and she had pointed out his paranoia, and she had told him not to do anything he would regret.

 

“I should’ve turned ‘im down first chance I had,” he moaned, shaking from head to toe. “‘N none of this would’ve happened-- What was I thinking?! How could I be so _stupid--_ ”

 

“Shh, don’t talk like that,” Andy told him, brooking no argument, and kissed his temple. “Shoes and jacket off, then something warm to drink. You’re freezing. Come on.”

 

He sighed, vision blurred with tears that wouldn’t stop welling up, but he didn’t argue. He toed off his boots and let her help him with the coat. Somewhere along the way, Jeffrey had taken care of his bag from the hospital, and busied himself in the kitchen with his wife.

 

Stupid, naive, freezing, and in a weepy daze - he felt like shit. Andy wiped his cheeks as if she’d had a thousand people break down in front of her, and used her scarf to dab at his nose. Gross, but effective. No one said anything about anything as they all sat down around the coffee table. Lydia set down a tall glass of what was arguably more warm milk and honey than it was herbal tea, and rubbed his knee before sitting down. There was a pot of fresh coffee on the table for the others. It made him think of Connor - at the coffee house, here on his couch talking about sports and music, clearing the place of old takeout boxes and junk, folding clothes fresh from the shop. Sumo lay on his bed in the corner, looking forlorn.

 

Hank patted at his leg, “Come here, Sumo. C’mere, buddy,” and Sumo whuffed, and pushed his way past legs and table legs, to sit at his human’s feet. Hank rubbed his great big jowls, scratched his floppy ears. Within seconds, Sumo was happy again, tail wagging and all. “There’s a good boy, that’s my big guy,” Hank went on, quietly, feeling choked up all over again. Or maybe that never really went away. “It’ll be okay. I’m back now, it’s okay. It’ll be okay.”

 

***

 

Lydia and Jeffrey stayed for coffee, but then made their excuses, seeing how exhausting it was for Hank just to keep his eyes open. They left him in Andy’s capable hands, and Lydia pressed a memory stick into her hand right before leaving. Something for Hank to check out when he was feeling better. “To remind him,” she said. “To keep fighting.”

 

Andy helped Hank get propped up in bed, as comfortable as he could be under the circumstances, and left him with a pitcher of water and a glass on the bedside table, his cellphone right next to him in bed. Just in case he needed her; she slept on the couch in the living room. Within minutes Sumo snuck into the bedroom, and curled up on the empty side of the bed.

 

In the morning she made breakfast - far from Hank’s usual diet of last night’s leftover junk food - in the form of yoghurt, berries and toast washed down with sweet herbal tea. Hank ate as much as he could get down, tossed back his first dose of painkillers of the day, and went back to sleep. Hank didn’t stir until late morning the next day.

 

They sat side by side on the couch, Hank propped up by the pillows from his bed while pushing his breakfast around in the bowl, more yoghurt and berries; Andy had tea, curled up and barefoot. Sumo was dreaming, curled up in the armchair, tail wagging in his sleep. It was too small for him to fit, but did he care? His hind leg kept sliding off, and he kept lifting it back up, the big pup. It could have been an idyllic shade of domestic life, if not for the context. Neither one of them had barely said a word since he got up.

 

“How’s Eric?” Hank asked, after several minutes of hedging.

 

“He’s fine,” said Andy, looking his way. “Not too happy I’m here…”

 

Hank tilted his head left, then right in the semblance of a shrug. Actually lifting his shoulders hurt in ways he didn’t want to. “Still pissed about how things ended?”

 

“No…” She shook her head, brushed his arm. “He still cares about you, but-- After Cole, we were all… None of us were coping. And he…”

 

“Blamed me. I was in the car with Cole. I was supposed to keep him safe.” Hank pushed at his slurry of yoghurt and berries, feeling sick to his stomach.

 

“He couldn’t get through to you, Hank. Neither could I. No one blamed you for what happened to our boy, no one. But it’s...been difficult for him to move on. You know?”

 

Oh, yes. Hank knew a thing or two about being unable and unwilling to move on. “You were always the strongest, out of the three of us. How’d that happen?”

 

Andy gave him a small smile. “I had to be strong for you. For both of you. That’s how it works: someone you love needs you, you step up to the plate. You do whatever you can to make things better.”

 

Water under the bridge though it was, Hank couldn’t help but feel remorse for how things spiralled out of control, way back when. “I remember us, huddled up on the floor of the waiting room, bawling our eyes out. You, me, Eric.”

 

She nodded, lower lip trembling, eyes tearing up. The wounds would never heal completely. They might scab over, leave a scar, but underneath it all... “I couldn’t stop screaming into your chest.”

 

Hank swallowed against a lump in his throat. “Not a day goes by that I don’t think about him. What he’d be like today if he were still alive. If he’d still be crazy about Japanese stuff. How tall would he be, how heavy. Would he prefer math to sports, or, I’unno, home ec?” He huffed a sad chuckle that seemed to die halfway. “I’m sorry, Andy. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you. For both of you. I...”

 

The hand on his arm squeezed firm, gentle, and she looked up at him with a sad but affectionate smile. “Me too, sweetie. But I understand why you couldn’t.”

 

They finished their breakfast in silence, and Andy took away the bowls and plates, refreshed their teas and came back to her spot. Sumo’s tail wagged, seemingly of its own volition, and she grinned over at him before looking at Hank with a glint in her eye that spelled out trouble. “You wanna see what Lydia put together for you?” she asked, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. Or tried to, as it sprung back within seconds. It was one of the things Hank had found sexy, way back when. Cute. All that gorgeous hair atop a firecracker. But that was a long time ago.

 

“No. I think I know what it is, and if I’m right, I don’t want to see it.”

 

Andy’s eyes narrowed, and she set her mug on the table. “Ominous.”

 

He shook his head, tiny little motions left and right. “She said something about-- the party. I think she filmed it with her phone. Or bits of it. Jeff said something about it last week, that she was putting something together for Connor and me. I was too jittery to notice, at the time.”

 

“Oh.” It was a weighted little sound, that one syllable word. Not that it stopped Andy: however much she got the gravity of the moment she wasn’t about to back down. “Is this the famous grand gesture I’ve been hearing so much about?”

 

“Probably,” Hank said, tricked into almost cracking a smile. Damn Andy and her teasing. “Very likely. Lydia told you all about it, huh?”

 

“It’s all she could talk about. She’s worried about you. Jeff, too.”

 

“I know…” Hank stretched his neck side to side, trying to roll out a more insistent stripe of kinks. He wasn’t used to spending so much time in bed. He wasn’t used to sleeping so damn much, and who knew sleeping could give you more aches and pains than you already had?

 

“Isn’t that some kind of unwritten rule, though? Don’t talk about the new boyfriend with the ex?”

 

Andy snort-giggled. That was another thing he’d found irresistible, way back when. She didn’t try to hide her mirth, no matter how awful her sense of humor. “I think you broke that rule when you called me at, what, five a.m, two weeks ago?” She gently brushed his arm. “I think we’re way past the statute of limitation on that one. I was more shocked to hear you’re seeing anyone at all!”

 

“Yeah, yeah… Hank Anderson, celibate by sheer stubbornness. I should put that on my business card. Like a tagline. My new hashtag.” His voice oozed sarcasm, but, like she’d always been, Andy was immune to his stabs at self-deprecation. She looked at him with her pale blue eyes and her button nose and her tiny chin, and Hank could honestly say he felt nothing but affection for her. All the other stuff from years ago - the toxic grief, the fights, the drifting apart - really was water under the bridge. “Alright. Why do _you_ want to watch the damn thing?”

 

She took a deep breath, let it out slow, and shrugged. She seemed to hesitate, and started twisting her fingers in her lap, one joint after the other. As she searched for the right words, she watched her hands. Then, quietly, she tried to explain, her eyes moving over his face. “Because of the way you talk about him. If you hadn’t told me he’s an android, I wouldn’t ’ve had a clue. And-- that’s another thing.”

 

Hank pressed the inside of his lips to his teeth, not entirely comfortable with the topic. It was one he’d brought up with himself a lot these past two months - his hatred for androids, white hot and burning like white phosphor. He and Andy used to fight about it, she never understood how anyone could harbor such loathing for something inanimate - and he used all the arguments put forth by the media: people losing their jobs, losing their ability to interact with normal people, losing their own independence. And while that was true, Andy would point out that wasn’t the fault of the androids. They were just doing their jobs, as designed by humans. It was as ridiculous as being mad at an engine for running smoothly, or a coffee machine making coffee, or an integrated security system sounding the alarm when spotting an intruder. Of course, all that escalated after Cole died at the hands of an android surgeon, and Hank put the blame where he never should have. He was blinded by grief and his own stupid issues, and that was no excuse. What’s worse, he clung to the hatred even after finding out why the human surgeon was unavailable.

 

“What happened to carting them all off to the recycling facility ‘where they belong’?”

 

At least she didn’t sound like she was judging him. Hank shrugged, but before he could say anything, she beat him to it. “Connor happened. And that’s what I want to see. You’ve been all over the papers, and I know what you’ve told me about him. I’ve seen the news. I...saw the KNC bit, from the hospital.” She shivered, as if chilled by the memory. “But I want to see who he is when the cameras aren’t watching. I want to see how he looks at you. I want to see if he’s good enough. I can’t just walk right up to him at the station, can I, so...this is it.”

 

Hank put down his tea with a grimace of pain, goddamnfucking bullet holes and stitches and old scars. _What KNC bit_ ? “He’s more than I deserve, Andy, fucking-- _ow_ ! _What_ bit from the hospital?”

 

She got out her phone, looked through her bookmarked clips. “It was horrible. It was the first I heard of what’d happened, Lydia’d been calling me all day but my phone was in Alarms Only mode. I dropped everything and ran for the airport. It was-- _awful._ TV. On. Cast from phone.”

 

“What were you doing in New York anyway,” Hank teased, but then the typical red scheme of the KNC newsdesk came on, with New York’s anchorman relaying recent developments in Detroit. “This is Gregory Thomson bringing you the latest update in the police shooting taking place in Detroit, Michigan earlier today. Lieutenant Hank Anderson, lead investigator in what has been dubbed the deviancy case, was gunned down at City Central Police Station. He was taken to hospital--”

 

Hank’s official police photo floated at the top left corner, while half the screen filled with recycled shots of him and Connor arriving to or leaving crime scenes, his house, the station, all the way back from that first case they worked together, Carlos Ortiz’s homicide. “KNC Detroit’s own Rosanna Cartland had the chance to talk with Anderson’s RK800 partner, Connor. Here’s what he had to say.”

 

And there he was, sat in a wheelchair, with blood on his hands and his face, blue blood on his lips, a swipe of dark red across his other cheek, looking dazed. Rosanna Cartland bulldozered her way through the interview despite the fact it was obvious Connor was in shock and neither fit to answer any questions nor likely to. He was polite, replying to her questions with an almost invariable “I am unable to comment on any ongoing investigation. Captain Fowler will no doubt issue a statement at his own discretion.”

 

His eyes kept looking off into the distance, eyelids twitching, lashes fluttering. His LED was an angry-looking red, but he seemed perfectly calm on the outside. Shocked, but calm.

 

Hank knew better. “He’s stressed. Agitated. He’s hurting, and that bitch keeps hammering him with questions. He’s not even listening to her!”

 

“--ould like to tell the viewers at home?”

 

It was like watching a pond rippling from a fallen raindrop, or a pebble thrown in, then leveling out. Connor’s LED went from that bright red to yellow, one color switching out the other in one full circle. He was shaking, and yet the yellow turned to blue in another few seconds. Hank cursed under his breath as he started thanking people.

 

“Sonuva _bitch_ , fucking _asshole_ \--” He shook a furious finger at the tv screen, and Andy stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. But _he_ wasn’t the crazy guy. _He_ hadn’t decided to sacrifice himself in the name of justice. “He’s saying goodbye! He’s fucking saying his goodbyes, because he thinks he’s so fucking _smart_ , fucking _asshole--_ ”

 

“TV, pause. Hank,” Andy grabbed his shaking fist, took him by the arm and made him sit back. It was probably for the best. His heart was racing again, and he was losing his breath to emotion. “What am I missing? Talk to me.”

 

Connor sat frozen on the tv screen, eyebrows knotted, his eyes big and full of that damned determination of his, that stubborn conviction that he’s doing the right thing, and...something more intangible. The lines on his forehead were all crinkled, the skin around his eyes seemed tense, a hundred minuscule lines of worry. He looked scared.

 

“He asked Fowler to store him as evidence. Said it would be ‘easier’ when CyberLife sent a new RK800, and Fowler could just give him his memory drive once the case was wrapped up and dealt with in court. That’s him resigning himself to dying, because it’s the _pragmatic thing to do_ , so I can live on with another unit of _him_ and everything will come up smelling like roses. _Bullshit._ He’s throwing himself in the line of fire to save me. Again. To get Reed convicted. And he didn’t have to! I would _never_ have asked him to! God-- fucking-- _stupid_ , of all the stupid _shit_ he’s pulled!”

 

“Hank--”

 

He could feel his voice break even before it did. “And now he’s stuck in the dark, all alone, and there’s nothing I can do to get him out of there. He’s in fucking _storage_.” He sighed, a long, shaky, deep breath that felt like agony. Andy was welling up, red nosed and bright eyed, chin trembling.

 

“ _And_ CyberLife sent a new one. No one asked them to, just ‘sorry your android was put out of commision, here’s a new one free of charge’. When did my life turn into a fucking telenovela? Fuck my life.”

 

Andy leaned into him, hugging his good arm. She was crying quiet little tears, he was choked up. Maybe it was true, that misery loved a bit of company.

 

He cleared his throat, reaching for the memory stick on the table. “Let’s see what Lydia put together. Show you what he’s really like. TV, pairing.” He pressed the bright blue button on the memory stick and watched as the screen confirmed the new content. Thank the stars for automatically connective thingamajigs.

 

It was bittersweet, to sit and watch what he had missed out on that night. He’d been so nervous he almost talked himself out of going at all, he missed more than an hour of the party. But Lydia had been there early, to help set things up (what she said in her impromptu vlog), and she walked the room, filming the decor, people waving at her in greeting. She talked to Spilane and the gang, everyone excited and ready to go. She even had a quick word with Connor, who was polite, and smiled shyly when she complimented his outfit.

 

“We picked it out,” Hank said, quiet. “I took him shopping for clothes. Felt like an old pervert, but...he was happy. He’s got better taste in clothes than me.”

 

“Doesn’t everyone?” Andy joked, cheek propped up against his shoulder. Hank’s mouth tugged into a smile, and she said, “He seems sweet.”

 

“Mmh,” agreed Hank, watching as Lydia persuaded him to do a full 360 for her. By the end he was grinning and ducking his head, not at all comfortable with the attention but obviously pleased. “He’s a sweetheart.”

 

The vlog cut out, opening on a new perspective, Jeffrey there in his knitted sweater, waving happily at the phone. And then it turned onto the stage, just in time for the first performance of the night. Spilane thanked everyone for putting up with them, and promised they had a great list of ol’ tunes from the past century to share with everyone, on the theme of Love with a capital L. She went on to explain that they were six members now, with their newest addition, Connor, a tenor, and that they each had picked two songs that were especially close to their hearts, for which they’d each take center stage. Plus, she said, they had a few medleys thrown in for good measure.

 

John Nichols, soprano and science geek extraordinaire started out first, saying there was one question all lovebirds had to ask themselves at one point, and no one asked it quite like the one and only Whitney Houston. He dedicated it to his husband with a wave and a wink.

 

Hank grinned as the background music came on, recognizing it from his childhood. “Oh, _God_ .” _How Will I Know_.

 

Anyone at full mental capacity would dread trying on anything sung by one of the most memorable, celebrated vocalists in the history of pop music, but Nichols didn’t only have the balls for it, he had pipes like you wouldn’t believe. What could have been a full-on massacre of a classic turned out to be just the opposite. The cynic in Hank said it was a stupid song, pandering to teenage girls across the globe - wholesome and cutesy and silly - but the gang of music geeks surprised him. They had a sense of humor about it, a glint in the eye that said they knew exactly how corny it was, that they were too damn old to be singing about love from such a young and innocent perspective (well, aside from the four-month-old android) - and they had choreography. None of them were dancers, and they didn’t try to be, but they could groove and bounce on their feet, and snap fingers, and clap hands. And they could sing. They’d rival any amateur gospel choir in town.

 

By the first chorus, they had people cheering and clapping along. Lydia was possibly the loudest one of all, even if she hadn’t been closest to the phone mic.

 

The lump lodged in Hank’s throat didn’t seem to be going anywhere, but he couldn’t help smiling, chuckling at their antics. He’d never have thought any one of them had a knack for comedy, but they were killing it. And Connor didn’t just have a knack for it, he had timing, and the most expressive face up there. It was worlds apart from last year’s party: they were much more confident now. They _knew_ they were good, and they weren’t afraid to show it.

 

Spilane’s number was similar, but different. She wasn’t quite the soloist like Nichols, but she knew how to pick them. She was the alto with a fondness for music from the golden, olden days, something she shared with Connor. Hank could’ve bet his monthly wages that it would be something by the Platters, but he bet on the wrong horse. She had picked _Be My Baby_ by The Ronettes. And that in itself was fine. The kids did as good a job of slaying that tune, too, but what really killed him was Connor - surprising him yet again with a hidden talent he’d missed while being a coward, sitting in his parking space, worrying. The chorus came on, and Connor grinned at the audience-as-such, brandishing a pair of...soup spoons like a trophy, or a gauntlet thrown on the ground. And then he started playing them, _clackety-clack_ -ing out rhythms against his thigh like a boss, while singing backup with the rest of the guys.

 

Hank started laughing. “Well, isn’t that something…”

 

Andy squeezed his arm. “Yeah. Wonder what he chose. As his songs?”

 

“I saw his second choice, later on, but one of ‘em’s gotta be something by the Platters. He knows their entire repertoire by heart.”

 

But once again, Hank found himself betting on the wrong horse. Connor took center stage with a mischievous glint in his eyes and a slant to his mouth that told Hank he was up to no good. He’d only seen that smile a few times. Mostly when Connor knew he’d slam dunked a joke, or was about to point out a particularly interesting factoid just to rattle someone’s cage. In this case, Hank had no idea what it meant.

 

Mic in hand, he looked across the crowd. “We’ll take a short break after this one, so you can get back to your food and beverages. But there’s a question that hangs in the air after John’s memorable performance.” Someone started clapping and whistling in the background, Nichols’s hubby by the sound of it. “Yes, exactly! Tough act to follow. As I was saying, John wanted to know the answer to a fairly simple question: how will I know if someone really loves me?”

 

He paused, for effect as much as something else. The perspective crept closer, Lydia zooming in on the stage, for Untold but Obvious Reasons. There was a line of tension around his eyes, despite the amiable, teasing front. Hank had an idea why. He wouldn’t have wanted to sing love songs after breaking up with someone just a week prior. But Connor acted like it was raining. “I think I have the answer.”

 

Andy started chuckling, while Hank stared at the tv, perplexed; on the screen, Connor looked to his fellow _troupe_ -ers, and counted down for whoever controlled the sound system. “I know which one. Come on, guess.”

 

Hank groaned, not up for guessing games, but there was no time for it, as next thing he knew, Mr Prim and Proper, Do Things by the Book, was belting out fuckin’ _Cher_.

 

_Does he love me, I wanna know, how can I tell if he loves me so?_

 

Not one week earlier, Connor had slumped into the wall next to his front door, telling him he couldn’t go on like this, that when you kissed someone it should be more than just ‘nice’. Hank knew he’d been rehearsing with the others, that he’d added his two songs to the mix, and they’d gone over this possibly even more than the rest. Connor was late to the party, so to speak, and his human friends didn’t have the luxury of perfect recollection of lyrics and harmonies. Hank couldn’t imagine how he must have felt, on the night itself and in rehearsals, and still he gave it every last bit of himself. Him and the others even gave a nod to the silly dance routine Hank vaguely recalled from the days when MTV was living up to its own acronym. He wondered why he’d picked that song. Was it spur of the moment? A moment of clarity? Wishful thinking, or romantic fancy? He remembered what it was like to be a teenager, when love was still a foreign, idealistic concept that you had all kinds of ideas about but didn’t really _know_. Is that what it was? Had Connor gone into brainstorming songs with the others, viewing the world in a brand new rosy glow of young love? Maybe it was just his sense of humor. Maybe he just thought it would fit in with John’s Whitney Houston routine.

 

In the end it didn’t really matter where it’d come from, it still filled Hank with a bitter taste in his mouth. It was sweet, and innocent, and quirky. Over the top and unapologetic, in your face. Everyone was having fun, except...Hank guessed, everyone except Connor. Why else would he have had such a violent reaction to Hank’s attempt at Big Gestures?

 

The longer they watched, the tighter the knot in Hank’s stomach, and the tighter the intangible fist closed around his breastbone. They watched every troupe member do their bit, they watched the medleys and the mashups, and the pure a capella songs, up until the Daft Punk one where Hank showed up, distracting Lydia from her vlogging.

 

It caught up again, for the last set of songs, including Connor’s take on Japanese brave face, which still made Hank feel strange on the inside.

 

Suddenly he was Lydia’s subject. Pacing by the buffet table. Hovering closer to one of the speakers.

 

Andy perked up as if on cue. “Oh. Oh! No way! She didn’t!”

 

“Oh, she did,” said Hank, and he didn’t look forward to seeing it one bit. It was bad enough living that moment, seeing the horror in Connor’s eyes and knowing that he was completely, utterly helpless faced with all that emotion.

 

The camera’s lens moved again, as Lydia got to higher ground or raised it higher. Or asked Jeff to do the filming. Hank on the right end of the screen, Connor with the gang on the left.

 

Hank watched himself butter-finger his way through connecting his walkman to the speaker, watched as the background music died down and everyone’s eyes turned, questioning, on him.

 

“I can’t,” he whispered, pulling his arm from Andy’s grip. He couldn’t breathe, he knew what was coming, and he couldn’t go through it again, he couldn’t watch Connor go to pieces in front of everyone, he had to get out of there. “I can’t. You watch it, but I can’t--”

 

“Hank…”

 

“ _No_.”

 

One might argue that running for the bathroom with the sole purpose of locking oneself in wasn’t the most mature, adult response one could have, but that’s what he did. He walked as fast as he could, with the opening guitar riffs of Roy Orbison’s classic at his back, and locked the door behind him. He didn’t bother with the lights, just squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to hear the sounds through the door.

 

Even with the music, even with the door between him and the tv, it couldn’t drown out the fact Connor sounded like a dying, distorted animal.

 

It was too much, too soon; too easy to imagine all that grief and fear lurking in the background when Connor decided to throw himself onto a metaphorical sword at the hospital, and Hank _ached_ with it, worse than any physical wound. He gulped down air, and went to the sink, turning the water on full blast to drown out the sounds with white noise.

 

Such a stupid, corny song. Talk about blissful ignorance: completely blue eyed, clueless, piece of shit music. ‘That’s how it’s supposed to be!’ his great aunt used to proclaim whenever that crap was on the radio. ‘Put your loved ones on a pedestal, but don’t you let ‘em treat you bad!’ Unconditional love, but with caveats… God rest her soul, but what a load of crap. ‘Anything at all, you got it, baby’… It was never that easy. Love’s a complicated cesspool of emotional ups and downs, and at the very best it left you reeling with motion sickness.

 

And wasn’t that exactly what he’d told Connor, that night? That love didn’t have to be complicated, that it was up to them to decide, and fuck what anyone else thought. Anything you want, or need, anything at all - Hank would give it to him, and damn the consequences.

 

And _damn_ the consequences…

 

For a while there, he’d even convinced himself it could be that simple, that easy, that everything would work out in their favor. They just had to weather the storm, become a symbol of this new world everyone was trying to build, everyone with a clue. Become poster boys for how humans and androids could co-exist and make each other better in the process.

 

He didn’t want to be anything of the sort. He’d rather stay in his own, private bubble of a life, and keep his business his _own_ damn business - but it was a price he’d been willing to pay in order to help give Connor the life he wanted, and Hank felt he deserved that much.

 

(And how’s that for irony? The android had more of a sex drive than him, and what would he have had to settle for? Once a week? Once a month? Between the raging alcoholism (and let’s not kid ourselves Hank was anywhere near having a ‘functional relationship’ with alcohol), and the lack of sleep due to the reality of his job, and the fact he wasn’t in his goddamn twenties anymore, Connor didn’t have much to look forward to.)

 

...if he ever got out of storage. And that was a big if. Anything could happen between today and their day in court, which could be months from now. The trial itself could drag on for weeks, months, depending what Reed’s lawyer pulled out his ass. And after? Some politician could get the bright idea to-- fuckit, put him in a museum, or turn him into a monument, mount him on his dining room wall, ferchrissakes. The Mayor would just _love_ that. Even Fowler’s superiors could get ideas about the evidence. Hank didn’t know why that thought scared him, because rationally he knew it was a long shot. It was a ridiculous thing to be afraid of, that for whatever reason someone would decide Connor was to be put on permanent display or remain in the evidence archives.

 

But, the devil in his ear pointed out, it wasn’t so far fetched at all. It wasn’t a long shot, when androids were still machines in the eyes of the law. It’s not as if they were _legal citizens_ . They didn’t have any rights, they didn’t have any autonomy of self, they had no right to ownership of property or otherwise, or to take employment, they couldn’t vote, they couldn’t press charges against people who abused them, they couldn’t marry, couldn’t reproduce, nothing - even if they wanted to. And if Connor was just a machine, just a piece of broken equipment, the DPD wouldn’t have any ground to stand on if Fowler up and demanded he be taken back into service. And besides...Fowler had already been sent a new Connor. They had no use for the old one, the one with the failing memory core and all the bullet holes in it. The _deviant_. Not to mention it would cost a small fortune just to get him repaired.

 

Hank lost his breakfast to the porcelain gods of the sink, and he ended up slumped on the toilet lid, leaning the back of his head against the cool wall. After a little while, Andy knocked on the door, said she was coming in whether he wanted to or not, but was he at least covering the biological bits. Yes, Hank replied, and before he could even get to his feet he could hear her unlocking the door from the outside. The doorknob turned, and there she was, a black figure against all that background light, brandishing a sharp object. She turned on the lights, then came to give him a hand up - whether he wanted to or not.

 

“Where’d you find that screwdriver? I’ve been looking for that for ages!”

 

“In your toolbox, goofus.”

 

Hank groaned, gasped with pain as he pushed to his feet, feeling like his insides might fall off the front of him if he moved too fast. “That’s not even a word, smartpants.”

 

“It’s an amalgamation. Or a portmanteau. Now shut it, and come see. You have to see this.”

 

‘This’, as Hank suspected, was the second to last thing he wanted to see right now. The tv was freeze framed on that moment where they came back out again. The door to Interrogation Room 1 was just cracked open, and Hank already knew what came next.

 

He felt sick all over again. “I don’t ‘have’ to see this, Andy. Just leave me alone, I’m tired, I’m going back to bed.” Maybe if he just slept long and deep enough he would wake up and the nightmare would be over - but Andy would have none of that. As they stood hovering in the middle of nowhere between the bathroom and his bedroom, Andy told the tv to play, and suddenly Hank was the one who couldn’t move a muscle.

 

He stared transfixed, seeing that moment from a different angle. At the time he’d been too surprised by the reaction of the room at large, and too happily embarrassed by all the fuss. Or more like embarrassingly happy - to see the way Connor held his hand and pulled him back into the crowd, the way his brown eyes seemed to glow from within. The way Connor looked at him, with a wobbly smile on his face and a blush to his cheeks, like there was no one else in the entire world, let alone the room.

 

Hank had to swallow past the painful lump in his throat before he could say anything. “We look like we’re about to walk down the church steps after a wedding ceremony.”

 

Andy nodded against his forearm, stroking the hand strapped across his chest in gentle wind wiper motions. “Says Mr. Anti-marriage… A pair of happy, handsome boys. Aren’t you glad I made you watch this?”

 

“ _No_.” Hank groused. “...ugh. TV, off. I need to think.”

 

Andy’s eyes took on a knowing look. “Coffee? I got you decaf, just to be safe.”

 

He could commit atrocities for alcohol right about now, except he felt weak as a kitten. And then there were the doctor’s orders. Strictly no alcohol with his pain meds, at all, no matter what; no matter how much pain he was in, or how crappy he felt, or how strong the pull of addiction. And he was on pain meds 24-fuckin’-7. Hank sighed. “As long as you throw away that herbal crap.” Another sigh, like a beat of his heart. “Thanks, Andy.”

 

“You’re welcome, ya big oaf.” They shared a knowing smile, before Andy helped him get settled on the couch again. There was a lot of thinking to be done. Problem was, he didn’t have a clue where to start.

 

...except...if not an actual clue, then...an inkling. A hunch. “Andy? Could you get me the phone book?”

 

“It’s on your phone? It’s called Goo--”

 

“Andy. _Phone book_. My fingers are too big for the goddamn keyboard, I’ll only end up throwing the damn thing at the wall.”

 

Andy chuckled, but left it at that. When she came over with the pot of decaf, she had the phone book under her arm. “Do you want me to dial the number for you, as well?”

 

Hank rolled his eyes at her; she grinned at him as he grabbed the brick of paper and started flipping through the rustling thin pages. “M. M, M, M...Man…”

 

Andy parked herself on the armrest of the chair, scruffing Sumo’s big belly, watching as Hank found what he was looking for. His hands trembled as he poked the correct numbers into the phone app. He felt sick to his stomach. This had to work. The number had to still be active.

 

Suddenly, static on the other end of the line, and Hank twitched visibly where he sat, biting down on a gasp. _Goddamnfucking--whydon’ttheymakebetterdrugs--_ “Hi! Uh, hrm. This is, this is Hank Anderson. Yeah, Lieutenant Anderson, that’s the one. Uhm. Have I reached Carl Manfred’s house?”

 


	9. A Storm, Coming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor Mark II enters stage right. So do four other androids. Hank takes a stand, in more than one ways, before the coming storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the chapters before this were already written. This one was a WiP. Next chapter will be written over the next week, as long as life doesn't get in the way too much. ;) I won't keep you waiting too long, promise. It's all in my head, it just needs writing down and tweaking a bit. Stay tuned for more!

* * *

  
  


“I understand that you’re apprehensive about giving me access to the case, Captain Fowler,” Connor Mark II said as the two of them were going downstairs to the evidence cellar. The past two days had been challenging, but nothing he wasn’t equipped to handle.

 

“You do, huh?” Remarked Fowler, dry, unimpressed. He reminded Connor of Hank, when they worked on their first case together: constant suspicion, sizing him up and finding him lacking.

 

“Yes - you view me as an unknown entity; an intruder. Moreso now that you’ve accepted my predecessor into your extended family unit. I assure you I am not here to replace him.”

 

Fowler unlocked the biometric lock, and brought up the case file. “He sure seemed to think so. Isn’t that the deal we had with CyberLife? You’re damaged beyond repair, they send a new one?”

 

Connor could almost hear the unspoken ‘whether we want them to or not’, but rather than bring it up, he filed it away for later reference. He watched as the crisp, white container walls slid out and moved forward into position, the overhead lights bathing everything in an eerie glow. “That was before the android demonstrations. The political climate has changed dramatically in the past month: CyberLife has to adapt if it wants to retain its position as global super corporation. According to my brief, I am to investigate this particular case as it involves a deviant, seeing as neither Connor Mark I nor Lieutenant Anderson are available or permitted to. Once I am done, I’ll return to CyberLife, unless otherwise notified. Connor Mark I will remain part of your team, once his function is fully restored.”

 

Captain Fowler looked at him in a way that made Connor want to shiver; he moved up to the deviant hanging on display - RK800, # 313 248 317-51. Connor: a deviant RK800. Its spinal column was hanging on by a filament, its thirium pump regulator replaced by a generic model, gunshot wounds to the torso…and it was missing a key component.

 

“Its memory core is gone.”

 

“Uhuh.”

 

Connor didn’t know what to make of that, nor of the way Fowler looked at him with something too close to disdain. At the top edge of his 3D imaging of the world, a blue status message told him of an instability in his software. He paid it little mind, reaching for Connor’s temple and the LED. His fingers whited out, interfacing. The deviant jumped, as if struck by an electrical current, blinking its eyes open. Connor watched it calmly, and scanned its LED to judge its stress levels. The numbers came up red, just at the sight of him. Mark I frowned at him, and didn’t seem at all capable of putting two and two together. He looked shocked.

 

“I-I’m… Connor?”

 

Mark II watched as his predecessor scanned his face, and looked behind him to do the same with Captain Fowler. “Yes, you’re Connor. An android sent by CyberLife to assist with criminal investigation involving deviants. So am I. This is Captain Fowler of Detroit PD. Do you remember why you’re here?”

 

Mark I’s eyes were huge pools of confusion, and his fingers twitched next to his thighs. “I am… I am Connor. You-- are Connor.”

 

Mark II nodded, and taking hold of its wrist, he tried to probe its memory, but there was nothing there: just flickers of consciousness and recognition, there and gone again in a matter of seconds. “Where am I? Why am I here?” asked the deviant RK800, and Connor did the only merciful thing he could. He put the first two digits of his hand to its LED, returning it to standby mode.

 

“Why did you remove the memory core?” he asked Fowler, but didn’t turn to look. It grated at him, this constant sense of distrust from his co-workers. He knew, rationally speaking, that no one blamed him for what happened to Lieutenant Anderson and Connor, but he couldn’t escape the nagging doubt poking at his attention. People looked at him with pain in their eyes, or discomfort, or couldn’t look him in the eye at all. He knew he wasn’t technically ‘popular’, by November 9, but he was becoming friends with Hank, and Fowler had been...as firm and direct as ever. Perhaps not such a far stretch from the current situation, but it still felt awkward. More awkward than before, knowing how much time had passed between his final memory upload and the present time. It certainly wasn’t helping his investigation. He had the distinct impression Fowler was stalling, but he couldn’t simply ask him if that was the case.

 

“Because he asked me to, and no, you can’t have it.”

 

Connor frowned, turning to face the captain. “Why would it do that?” When the human narrowed his eyes, Connor thought better of his phrasing, and cleared his throat. “Why would  _ he  _ do that? He knew CyberLife would send a replacement in the event of--”

 

Fowler pressed his lips together until they were barely visible, a thin line of tension bisecting his face. “It’s really not my place to speculate about Connor’s motivations when he’s unable to speak for himself.”

 

Connor stifled a sigh, and thought better of rolling his eyes at his superior officer; his reluctance to answer opened up another door, however, and Connor wasn’t going to miss his opportunity. “My sole function here is to investigate this case. I am going to have to ask difficult questions, and I expect them to be answered. With all due respect, obstructing my investigation is not going to help Lieutenant Anderson. We’re both on the same side, Captain.”

 

Fowler’s nostrils flared, and his posture seemed to expand. He took one step closer, and another, stopping just short of that elusive bubble of space that humans considered their own. (Connor found it fascinating, that the captain was actually trying to intimidate him.) “Are you sure about that, Connor? Is that really all there is to it? You don’t think CyberLife has a hidden agenda? One of my detectives shot a superior officer. End of story. Connor’s ‘involvement’ is a flimsy excuse for why you’re here, and you know that as well as I do.”

 

Connor blinked, caught off guard by the question. Hidden agenda? “...no. There’s no hidden agenda. I… Hank’s my friend, Captain Fowler. Sir. I consider him a friend. He’s the only friend I have, why would I try to sabotage his case?” A blue arrow at the top right of his peripheral vision indicated an instability in his software, there and gone again in the blink of an eye. “This is standard protocol. Mark I is a deviant. Whether you like it or not, you can’t say his involvement is purely circumstantial. His presence, his role at the station, seems to me like one very likely trigger point. It’s glaringly obvious to me, and it should be to anyone who was there. Connor is the victim of a crime I am bound to investigate. Just as much as Hank.”

 

For what it was worth, some of the steel in Fowler’s eyes seemed to drain away, and he backed off by the one step. Maybe it was just the one, but that bit of distance made all the difference. Connor could feel some of the tension dissipating, crackling like static electricity in the air. “Alright. Alright… I’ll answer your questions, but first you have to answer one of mine.”

 

Connor nodded. “Of course.”

 

Fowler crossed his big arms over his chest, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “November 11th. What’s the last thing you remember?”

 

Of all the possible questions Connor had anticipated, this was not at the top of his list. He wondered why Fowler thought this was the million dollar one, when he could have asked anything at all. “My last memory is from November 9th, like I told you before,” he said, measured and even in tone. He wondered if it was a trick question, but decided to give the captain the benefit of the doubt. “I had just located Markus. My handler advised me that he needed to be taken in, alive. That’s the last thing I remember.” Fowler still didn’t look impressed. Connor resisted the irrational urge to swallow convulsively.

 

“You found Jericho. How’d you do that?”

 

Connor pressed his lips together, not sure how he felt about where this was going. It was...unsettling. “I believe you said one question, Captain,” he said, against better judgment.

 

Fowler’s voice went cold as ice, reflecting Connor’s assessment: it was the wrong thing to say. “Call it a follow-up.”

 

Their eyes held for a long moment, neither one of them budging. Connor recognized it as a common tactic among dominant humans, an unvoiced challenge in which the loser broke eye contact first. It was a ludicrous construct, primal, but he could play the game for the sake of learning. He’d give Fowler a run for his money before he let him win.

 

And yet, for some unfathomable reason, breaking eye contact felt like a relief. “I analyzed the evidence available.” He could hear the sound of Fowler taking a breath, and calculated that he wasn’t happy with that answer, and he’d better elaborate without delay. But he didn’t want to implicate Hank-- “I stole the key from Hank’s desk. He was upset, after we were taken off the case, and when he saw Perkins…” Fowler was there, he knew what had transpired. “I couldn’t go back to CyberLife without at least trying to crack the case. They were going to analyze my components, figure out why I’d failed. I had to try.”

 

Fowler was quiet for what seemed an eternity, during which Connor could feel the weight of his stare. It was unnerving. It was yet another of the many thoughts he’d been having that shouldn’t be part of his program. He wondered, not for the first time, if he’d been compromised somehow.

 

“You’d throw yourself under the bus to save his ass, huh? I  _ know _ Hank. I knew you two were in on that thing, together. Think I don’t know diversionary tactics when I see it?”

 

Connor looked up, startled by the realization: Fowler had known what they were up to, and he let them get away with it. “Right.”

 

Fowler let his arms relax at his sides, and he nodded at the door behind them. “Time to leave Connor in peace, let him rest, come on. What do you need?”

 

For the time being, Connor had proved himself in the eyes of Captain Fowler - but he knew it was a small victory in the larger scheme of things. He had won the battle, but now he had to win the war.

 

***

 

It was dark outside that evening, cold and dark and snowing up a storm. Andy braved the weather to take Sumo for a walk, and told the news crews outside to shove it. Hank was parked on the couch, blinds and curtains closed much like they had been since his house became gossip central. He was tired, numb and aching at the same time, and despite the progress of the medical industry his pain medication still made him feel ever so slightly  _ off _ . He felt slowed down, physically and otherwise, and that grated at him, like nuts on a microplane. He had to be focused, sharp, he had to figure this out--

 

A knock broke the silence of the house, but not from the front door. The tabloid journalists still hanging around had learned not to come near his house, and they had learned that the hard way: Sumo might be a big pooch, but he had a bark like a rottweiler, and Hank wasn’t above using that to his advantage, and imply mutilation. But, no, that knock came from the door in Hank’s hallway, leading to his garage, which he only ever used for storage. It wasn’t entirely unexpected, given a certain phone call earlier that day, but it still caught him off guard.

 

He pushed to his feet, using his ‘good’ arm to steady himself (and ‘good’ was a blatant lie, in that nothing felt vaguely ‘good’ anymore, but at least it wasn’t strapped to his chest), palm flat on the coffee table. He would’ve cursed up a storm if he didn’t feel so drained, and every shuffle down the hallway felt like knives poking at his stitches. Dull knives, like the little ones used for salads, or butter.

 

He unlocked the door, pulled it open, and Hank found himself staring not at one set of eyes, but two. “What the--”

 

Markus, in the proverbial flesh, stood there, in Hank’s garage-cum-storage, wearing a small smile tinged with amusement. And he had company. “Carl told me you’d called. I hope you don’t mind, I brought reinforcements.”

 

Hank’s mouth worked, but no words came out. Four androids, four deviants, stood in his garage, looking at him expectantly. It was a bit much to take in. “I. No, that’s...” He stepped back, swinging the door open as far as it would go. “Come in. Please. I’m-- I’m a bit doped up, sorry. Come in, all of you.”

 

As the four of them ducked into his hallway, Hank couldn’t help but be reminded of the office party and Spilane’s troupe: all four of them of different make and model, different designs, different strengths. He closed the door, locked it, and then simply hovered there. What now? He’d hoped for a phone call, and instead he got four of the most important deviant androids in existence, showing up outta nowhere. Here, in his house. And how the Hell did they get in?! No windows, no side door, nothing but the garage door itself, and it had motion sensors flooding the drive with light. Sneaky pricks...

 

“I…” he said, feeling short of breath. “I recognize your faces, from the news coverage. Back in November.”

 

Markus nodded, and introduced his androids-in-arms in the order of where they stood in the room. “This is Josh, Simon, and North. We wanted to help.”

 

North stood with her arms crossed by the very edge of the hallway, acting lookout. The guy called Simon nodded, eyes scanning Hank in a way that reminded him of Connor. Josh picked up where Markus left off, “Connor’s been doing a lot for keeping the android population safe. The least we can do is return the favor.”

 

Hank nodded, weighing his options between the kitchen, which only had the two chairs to boast, and it wasn’t as if he could offer them a drink - and the long, hard road back to the living room and the couch. It was an equal enough bitch of a trek, but the living room won the battle, as it were. Closer, and more seats: win/win. “I half suspected he was staying at homeless shelters,” he said, and started the slow shuffling back to the living room. To his surprise, Mr Ridiculously Blue Eyes came to his side, taking his arm. Simon, was it? Simon, focus. “Thanks.”

 

Simon gave him a small smile. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he did. I got the impression he wasn’t comfortable with the rest of us.”

 

The rest of the quartet followed them into the living room, Simon helping him get settled and propped up. He felt like shit, and could only watch as Simon sat down on the coffee table, took his hand and placed two fingers at his wrist; Hank was too exhausted to complain. Markus took the armchair, Josh the opposite end of the couch, while Long-Braided-Lady took position by the window. South, was it? North? So, she was the guard dog, Hank surmised.

 

“Look…” he said, eyes moving between them all, one after the other. He didn’t know where to look: although Markus had been the face of the entire android revolution, he didn’t seem the obvious leader of the group. None of them did. Just the same, Hank’s eyes settled on Markus. “I appreciate you coming here, I do, I-I… I need your help, but I don’t even know where to start. I just figured… I know Connor helped your cause, I was there when he set all those androids free at CyberLife Tower. I figured…”

 

“Take a few deep breaths for me, Lieutenant,” Simon said, and his eyes didn’t budge when Hank glared at him. Breathe? He was breathing just fine, thankyouverym--

 

Hank sighed heavily, but did as suggested. One deep breath, shaky, but getting there, and another one. “I figured you would know him, in a, a different way than me, that you could…” Another deep sigh. He really couldn’t think, not with these drugs in his system, not if he downed all the decaf in the world in one go. “I don’t know. I don’t even know what I’m asking.”

 

“We saw the news,” Markus said, sitting with his legs wide, feet planted firm, fingers clasped and hanging in the space between his knees. “It didn’t say anything about him being logged as evidence. What happened?”

 

Hank shrugged, and leaned back into the pillows as much as they would allow. Simon seemed satisfied he wasn’t going to hurt himself, and let him have his hand back. “I was in surgery. It was right after the shooting, uh, no, right after he was processed by CSI. He asked Captain Fowler, our boss, to, to bag and tag him, lock him away. Gave him his memory drive, core, his long-term memory thing. For safekeeping.”

 

Simon tilted his head, his eyebrows arching into mirrored s-shapes. “And now there’s another Connor. Is he also a deviant?”

 

“I don’t know,” said Hank, feeling weighed down by all the things he didn’t know. “He’s investigating my case. It’s...what he  _ does _ , he investigates deviant-related crimes. He’ll probably show up here any minute now, wanting to take my statement.  _ Fffuck _ .”

 

Hank watched as the three androids sitting around his coffee table looked at each other, and exchanged the  _ mother  _ of knowing looks. He’d never seen such a thing, it was like they could read each others’ minds. Even Cardinal Point looked over from her position by the window. It spooked the shit out of him, if he were honest. Could androids just... _ talk _ with each other? No words necessary? “What?” He blurted the question, feeling like the odd man out. He wondered if this was how Connor felt at the station, back in November. Did he still feel like this, like he was left out of the loop?

 

It was Josh that took the lead. “Connor has been officially logged as evidence, ‘bagged and tagged’, like you said. Normal procedure after a case goes through due process is that personal belongings go back to their owners, and the rest is put away in storage, indefinitely. Right?”

 

Hank couldn’t even muster a nod. He didn’t like where this was going, not one bit. “Right. That’s what I’m afraid of. Even if CyberLife doesn’t claim him as property, anyone could decide to-- I’unno, put him on display somewhere. He’s-- ‘only’ a machine, legally speaking. A broken piece of equipment. Unless by some miracle President Warren decides to move things along, he’s got no rights.”

 

Markus arched his eyebrows, but the look in his eye was one of compassion. “I think you’re too close to the canvas to see the picture, Hank. Back up a bit.”

 

“What? What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

It was North’s turn to chime in, and it wasn’t to the same, understanding tune as her compatriots. She crossed her arms over her chest, glaring daggers at him from across the room. “You forget about the contract you signed with CyberLife? For Connor’s upgrades? Don’t pretend you don’t know what that means!”

 

“North…” Markus said, but she wouldn’t be deterred.

 

“You  _ bought  _ him! You’re just like all the other johns at the sex clubs! You’re worse, you’re parading him like a trophy, you disgusting, old m--”

 

“North!”

 

The room fell quiet, silent as a tomb save for the pounding of Hank’s heart in his chest. The noise spread, like rot, festering in his brain. He breathed out; his voice seemed to die on his tongue. That’s what it looked like: he’d essentially bought the most expensive sex doll in the world, and told the press all about it. It wasn’t the worst he’d heard, not by far, or read, from family or strangers, in tabloids or news magazines. Gavin’s words echoed in the room, or perhaps only in his head: all the sexual slurs, the jokes, the things he’d scribbled on the restroom wall.

 

_ Hank can’t get pussy elsewhere, so he bought you one? _

 

He looked at North, saw the fire in her eyes; she looked a lot like some of the girls at the Eden Club. Maybe she spoke out of personal experience. Maybe she had a point. “It’s okay. You’re just saying what practically everyone else is. And that’s fine, say anything you want about me. I’m no saint. But… What does that say about Connor? Huh? What kind of mindless automaton do you think he is? I can do anything I want, and he just says ‘yes, master’? That’s what you think of him, you can  _ get outta my house _ .”

 

“Alright,” Markus interjected, showing the palms of his hands in a gesture as old as human society: a white flag, backing off, ceasefire, all wrapped up in one. “He told me you were apprehensive. Uncomfortable about it, at first. He confided in me; the others didn’t know.”

 

North and him exchanged looks again, but this time she stayed quiet. Hank brushed his fingers over his lips. His mouth felt bone dry. Did he have to justify their personal life? He’d probably have to do just that in the coming weeks, months. He might as well start practicing now.

 

“He just...wanted to be able to… Just, have the ability. It’s what he wanted, and that’s all that mattered to me. I didn’t-- think it would mean I  _ own _ him. I don’t  _ want  _ to own him, I never thought-- about it that way. You can’t own a person.”

 

And just like that, the air seemed to lift. A new kind of energy filled the room, and it made all the hairs on Hank’s arms stand up like acupuncture needles.

 

Simon looked at him with those enormous eyes of his, a curl to his lip that spoke its own lingo - he could see the punchline of a joke even before it was told. “But if it would mean no one could take him away? Not CyberLife, not the police, no one.”

 

Josh shrugged, palms turned towards the ceiling like a set of scales weighing options. “You have order confirmation for upgrading that specific RK800 model, with a unique serial number and designation. You’ve paid in advance, for which you have a receipt. You signed documents. That’s proof of ownership.”

 

“He  _ is _ just a machine in the eyes of the law,” Markus pointed out, and Simon followed suit, with that damned smile on his lips.

 

“Just a broken piece of equipment.”

 

North stepped forward, dropping her hands to her sides and tucked them into the pockets of her vest. Some of her animosity seemed to have drained away; maybe it was something he said that changed her mind about things. Maybe it was thanks to Markus. “It  _ would  _ cost a small fortune to have him sent in for repairs. You’d have a hard time convincing the people in charge it’s an investment they want to make... If you hadn’t already paid a small fortune for a custom remodel…”

 

Hank could feel his eyelids pull back until he couldn’t open them any wider. “But wh-- what about equality? Equal rights and responsibilities? Recognition as a person? You think he’ll be okay with me claiming  _ ownership _ , just like that.”

 

He watched as Markus shrugged, mirroring Simon’s serene smile. “It’s the pragmatic thing to do, under the circumstances. Connor’s big on pragmatism.”

 

“It’s the ace up your sleeve, really,” Josh added. “Don’t use it unless you have to.”

 

“But don’t hesitate,” said Simon. “All’s fair...”

 

Hank shook his head, mouth pressed thin over his teeth. “I really don’t like this. Not at all…”

 

“But?” Markus asked, arched eyebrows, all expectant. Hank didn’t know what to say to that. Far as he knew, these were Connor’s friends and allies. He had to trust their judgement. He just didn’t have to like it.

 

“There’s not a lot I wouldn’t do for him,” Hank said. “If this gives us a chance of keeping him out of-- Not out of harm’s way - but safe. Happy. Get him home. Then I’ll do it. I’ll do anything I can.”

 

Markus tilted his chin down, lacing his fingers in their previous position. The air was lifted, but there were still serious things to discuss. “Have you seen him?”

 

Hank’s mind filled with a too bright light, images dancing before his mind’s eye; smears of blood over pale, freckled skin; an orange dot moving around a matted circle... “Yeah. He’s in storage with the rest of the evidence. In standby mode.” He lowered his gaze to some middle distance between the past and the present. He felt unfocused, his vision blurring too. So numb. So cold. “He looked like he’s...sleeping. If not for the bullet holes. The blood.”

 

“You said he removed his memory drive,” Simon said, gearing up for a question that had to be asked. “And he asked your boss to give it to the new Connor? Why would he do that?”

 

Hank arched his eyebrows in the equivalent of a shrug, looking up to search Simon’s eyes for clues. What was he really asking? “I don’t know. We both read the contract, fine print and everything, every word of it. He should’ve thought about what it meant, even if I didn’t. That he didn’t have to worry about being taken away, or replaced.”

 

To his right, Josh gave a small sigh. His mouth tugged sideways. “He’s been under a lot of stress lately. Quiet. Kept to himself.”

 

“Even more than usual,” North agreed.

 

“Especially since last week,” said Markus, his voice mirroring the tension of his body language. “With the media frenzy.”

 

“And then the shooting,” Simon added. “He’s traumatized.”

 

Hank let out a puff of air through his nose, one corner of his mouth tugging into a smirk that had little to do with amusement. “‘Too close to the canvas to see the big picture’, maybe… I’m supposed to be the cynical, distrusting one, and turns out he’s just as bad.”

 

Markus locked eyes with him, then. “What happens next?” The android asked, and at least to Hank’s mind there was only one way forward.

 

“We’re going to slaughter Gavin Reed in court, that’s what’s next. And we’re going to do everything we can to speed things the Hell up. Connor’s not gonna spend one more day in the dark than absolutely necessary. His sacrifice won’t be for nothing.” He should be here, sitting right here, adding his thoughts to the mix. He should be back on his feet, upright and proud, getting used to his new body - no more bullet holes, no more blood. But Connor had chosen this course of action, and Hank was determined (ha! That word again, determination: he could play that game too) to see it through to the bitter end. For both their sakes.

 

***

 

9 PM precisely, January 5th, two days after Lieutenant Anderson was released from hospital, Connor Mark II stepped out of a taxi cab just down the street from Hank’s house. He was pleased to see that the news vans had dwindled in number - Fowler had said it was bad, and Connor had surmised as much himself by how many articles and…’articles’ were written on the topic of Lieutenant Anderson and his android partner. What few paparazzi and reporters were still hanging around seemed to move as a tidal wave once they spotted him. It was really quite remarkable to see: one of them saw him walking towards the house, and that motion alone seemed to send a twitch through the rest of the group. All eyes turned on him, and the metaphorical tidal wave soon crashed down around him.

 

They shouted questions big and small at him, pertinent and otherwise: some assumed he was the original Connor, for which he couldn’t blame them. Detroit PD had been very discreet about what had transpired after the shooting. However, it was part of official record that he was to investigate said shooting, and he didn’t mind informing them of that fact.

 

“I am here in an official capacity,” he told them. “I can’t divulge any details on the case. Now, excuse me.”

 

It wasn’t entirely truthful: he was also here as a friend. Hank was the only friend he had, and the only thing that had stopped him from coming here sooner was Fowler’s insisting he needed time. To recover, to rebound from the trauma - Connor couldn’t say which, but he had a feeling it was for the best to give Hank some space. Some time to distance himself from the event. As much as one could.

 

If he were honest with himself, difficult though that may be when he kept having doubts regarding his own software, he was apprehensive about this. He could play back with perfect clarity that look on Hank’s face, at the station. The look in his eye. The way his jaw had moved side to side, stiff and slow. Painful. As if simply seeing his face was a lesson in despair.

 

Connor stepped onto the porch and rang the doorbell, hoping he wouldn’t have to see that look on Hank’s face again. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt him.

 

When the lock clicked and the door swung open, he expected to see Hank standing there, looking worse for the wear but on the road to recovery. He braced himself for the worst case scenario, even though he wasn’t sure how to quantify that, exactly - only to find himself stumped. He had to lower his gaze to meet the eye of someone much shorter in stature. Someone who looked very familiar, and very shocked: possibly as shocked as he felt. 

 

They both remembered to speak at the same time, words tumbling all over each other.

 

“You’re-- Cole’s mother.”

 

“Connor! Oh, my-- Come in!”

 

“I-I’m sorry, I don’t mean to intrude.”

 

“You’re not! I promise, come on-- Hi!”

 

He watched as if through a fog, dazed, as the woman simply took his hand and led him into the hallway. The door closed behind him, the lock turned, and only then did she let go, quick, as if stung.

 

“Oh! I’m sorry, you, you’re the new one! Of course you are, I’m so sorry, oh, this is awkward--”

 

“That’s okay,” Connor said, wanting to reassure. “It’s an easy mistake to make. I was made as a unique model, and I’m not, anymore. I’m-- the amnesiac twin. Or a system restore point. That’s probably more accurate.” See? He can make questionable jokes? It’s okay?

 

She smiled at him, shoulders heaving with a deep breath. He wasn’t sure she got the joke. “Okay... Let’s start over. I’m Andy. Andrea Gibson. Hank’s friend. And, yes. I’m Cole’s mom.”

 

Connor couldn’t help but return the smile, despite circumstances. “I’m Connor. The... _ second _ android sent by CyberLife to assist Detroit PD with deviant related crimes. I can’t say I’m Hank’s partner, but...I do consider him my friend.”

 

That settled, Andy showed him to the living room. “Hank’s sleeping. It’s been a rough day. Between the injuries and the stress and the meds…”  _ and the not drinking _ , she didn’t say, but Connor could hear it, loud and clear. Withdrawal always took a toll on the body and mind, despite the long term benefits of sobriety. He had to take that into consideration as well.

 

“I understand. I do need to take his statement, but I’m also here as his friend. I don’t want to rush him. It will likely be stressful enough just to go through events.”

 

Andrea tilted her head at him, a softened look around her eyes. “I’ll check on him, see if he’s up for...this. Just...take it easy on him.”

 

Connor inclined his head in a nod, and watched her disappear into the bedroom. He clasped his hands behind his back and looked around the place - it seemed so different from last time he was here. No takeout boxes left out for days. No bottles or cans cluttering up every available surface. No clothes strewn haphazardly across the room. More notably, no gun on the floor next to a nearly emptied bottle of Black Lamb. Cole’s picture sat on the tv bench, next to the tiny cactus in its tiny pot. He wondered if it was due to Andrea’s presence, or if it was...Connor. Regardless, it made him smile. Cole was a crucial component of Hank’s past.

 

And then, another surprise catching him off guard: the sound of heavy paws and claws that could do with a bit of trimming. Connor turned around just in time to catch an armful of 240 pounds of puppy affection. “Sumo! Hi! Oh, wow, are you happy to see me-- Down, down, boy, let me look at you.”

 

He sat down on the far left side of the couch, and Sumo unceremoniously planted his entire torso on his lap. Connor found himself laughing, hugging the silly beast. A status message told him of an instability in his program, but it wasn’t a priority at the moment. It faded very quickly.

 

“I’m sorry,” he told the big dog, overgrown puppy that he was, rubbing at his neck. “I’m not the Connor you think I am, but I’m sure he’ll be back in no time. In the meantime, you have to keep an eye on Hank for me, okay? You’re a horrible excuse for a guard dog, though… We’ll have to teach you a trick or two. Like baring your teeth, that’s a good one, show intruders you mean business. And don’t trust strangers just because they know your name!”

 

He didn’t hear Hank stepping into the hallway. He didn’t see the stricken look on his face, wasn’t aware of the significance of sitting where he did, talking to Sumo like he was a long, lost friend.

 

Hank and Andy looked at each other, communicating without words. Hank ducked into the bathroom, and Andy returned to their guest. “Hank’s freshening up. I’ll make some coffee. Would you like...something? Can you…?”

 

Connor looked up, a lingering smile on his face. “No. Thank you, though.”

 

He looked on as Andrea swiveled from foot to foot, shifting her weight from heel to toe. She was hesitant, but didn’t seem nervous. “Might seem strange to you, but-- I don’t know if this is completely inappropriate… but I’ve always had a hard time viewing androids as machines. I mean, sure, I know you’re different from humans, that we’re not built--” she grinned, realizing her unintentional pun. “--the same way. But, you look like people, you walk like people, talk like people…”

 

“It’s how we were designed. To integrate easily into everyday life.”

 

“I know. I know…” she turned for the kitchen, starting on the coffee (a quick scan told Connor it was decaffeinated) with quick, jittery motions. “I don’t know what I’m trying to say. ‘CyberLife did a good job’? Ugh.”

 

“You felt empathy for something other than your own kind. Someone once told me that’s a human emotion.”

 

Andrea laughed, a brief chortle that carried over the rush of the tap water in the pot. “Yeah, I guess so. I loved Transformers growing up, and talking cars in movies and on tv-- I had _such_ a girlie crush on Kit, as a kid. R2-D2 and C3P0. Robots, artificial intelligence. The androids from the _Alien_ movies _._ I _loved_ the idea of traditionally inanimate things having souls too, and personalities, and agendas. _Klaatu barada nikto_ , and all that sci-fi… And the classics, too. Ovid’s _Pygmalion_...”

 

Connor’s eyebrows lifted of their own accord. Sumo demanded more ear rubs, which he was happy to supply. He liked dogs, but he was especially fond of this particular one. “It obviously shaped you, as a person.”

 

“Ha! Oh, yeah… No pun intended, right?” Was Andy’s response, chuckling at a joke Connor wasn’t aware he’d made.

 

***

 

Hank stood in front of the bathroom mirror, listening to the voices outside. He stared himself in the face, but he didn’t recognize himself. He looked pale even by his normal standards, gaunt, drawn. Hollowed out like an old tree trunk. He’d like to soak in the tub for a good hour, slip under the water’s surface and just watch the bubbles rise up, up, up...nothing but the sound of water in his ears.

 

If wishes were horses…

 

He tried telling himself it would be fine. That that wasn’t really Connor’s voice, out there, that wasn’t really Connor, scruffing his dog. Sitting in his usual spot on the couch, uniform and everything. It was like a flashback, or déjà vu, except...it really was Connor’s voice. It really was him, sitting out there, in his usual spot, talking science fiction with Andy.

 

It was just...a different him. An earlier, or later version of him. A temporal anomaly.

 

He should shave. At least trim the stubble down his throat, down the back of his neck, and damn haircut. He stopped shaving for a reason, he stopped going to the barber for a  _ reason _ , and how the fuck anyone can be bothered was beyond his scope of imagination--

 

Until one of his post-its caught his eye, a glimmer of color at the edge of his vision, right there by the mirror.  _ Shave - OR NOT! _ it said, like its fellow sticky notes. Little pops of color, and angry messages on them. Pep talk, for making sure he never forgot to be a miserable, bitter old bastard - and let’s make sure no one else forgets it either. What a way to live.

 

He washed his face with cold water, brushed his teeth, and got rid of the stubble expanding from his jawline down the front of his throat. Did it matter who he’d been five years ago? Or one year ago? Six months ago, three? No. He was still the same guy, but...different. Same asshole, different outlook on life. He’d come out of a long-ass nightmare and seen the light. Didn’t Fowler say something like that? Fuck it.

 

His friend had assumed he had to change for Connor, to show him he was serious, but as it turned out that wasn’t the case at all. Connor liked him just the way he was, cranky, loud and abrasive bits included. In the end, he’d had to change for his own good. For himself. Or, perhaps just realize he was already changing. That ‘cleaning up’ was just some...cosmetic manifestation of what was already going on inside.

 

His hand shot out before he could think better of it (what was there to think better of?), balling one pink post-it after another into his fist until there were none of them left and they all dug into his palm with their sharp-blunt edges. Goddamn, fucking--

 

He tossed them in the trash, his entire arm shaking, and rubbed his face briskly. Time to get to work. Time to step up and get shit done, and if anyone gave him attitude he’d tell ‘em exactly where they could shove it.

 

He took a deep breath, pushed it out as hard as he could, and wiped his face and neck one last time. He could do this. Meeting the new Connor didn’t have to be awkward, or traumatic, or painful (and wasn’t that his new motto? ‘This doesn’t have to be awkward’?). They both had work to do. And...more importantly, they were friends. If he couldn’t believe that, then what’s the point of doing anything?

 

This Connor remembered everything they’d been through, right up until November 9th. That was the day they were taken off the case and the FBI took over, and Connor told him it had been an honor to work with him. He’d said he thought they could’ve been friends, given more time.

 

Hank had known even then, just by looking at him, that they already were. What happened later at CyberLife, was just confirmation of facts.

 

And that made things very simple indeed.

 

***

 

Connor looked up at the sound of the bathroom door, turning to see as Hank stepped into the hallway. Connor scanned him, just to be on the safe side, and found several key points of interest: the sling keeping his right shoulder immobilized while the gunshot wound healed, the laceration to his liver, the perforated lung, two more gunshot wounds that hadn’t hit any vital organs, a smattering of shrapnel across his chest and belly from where the bullets went right through Connor Mark I and into him. Several wounds correlated directly with the damage inflicted on his predecessor. Witness reports matched the physical evidence: Connor’s predecessor had thrown himself in the line of fire, shielding his partner. It made sense to him: he would have done the same thing, if no other options presented themselves.

 

Hank had a dark gray bathrobe on over a pair of drawstring sweatpants (red) and a t-shirt (tie dye, orange and black). The combination reminded Connor of the night they investigated the Eden Club, when Hank had asked him to pick a shirt, and all three options were of questionable taste. He found it heartwarming, that even in these dark times, Hank refused to let go of the prints. And the look on his face was familiar - eyebrows slanted upwards towards the center of his forehead, which showed all his wrinkles. His eyes seemed too blue, but despite the dark circles Connor could see a warmth there that he remembered from the last time he saw Hank - before he was activated, part of Mark I’s memories. They were at the station, having just agreed that Hank should act distraction (if not in so many words), while Connor took his keycard and ran with it. Hank had looked at him then, like he was a real enough person. Like his continued existence mattered, even with the future of the entire android population at stake. He’d looked at him like he mattered.

 

He stood up, patting Sumo on the head one last time before turning to face Hank. “Hello, lieutenant.”

 

Hank gave him a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, but he started walking towards the couch nonetheless. “Hi, Connor. I’d say long time, no see, but we haven’t been properly introduced yet, have we?”

 

Connor blinked. He wasn’t sure what he had expected, exactly, but this calm, but also sad-looking, friendly approach wasn’t it. “I...was designed as a unique model. I can see how my presence is...troublesome. It complicates matters.”

 

Andrea watched from the kitchen, getting out coffee mugs. It was obvious to everyone present she was eavesdropping, but what else could she do? Connor didn’t blame her. It didn’t look like Hank did, either.

 

He made it to the couch, looking Connor over with an assessing look on his face. “Yeah, you could say that again. Dash Five Two. Is that your…” he twirled his fingers in the air, looking for the right word. “Designation? My partner is Five One. Or Fifty-One.” And there came another smirk, a flash of teeth as he sat down.

 

Connor turned where he stood, clasping his hands behind his back. “Either would be correct. Hank…”

 

Just like that, the lieutenant looked up at him, one eyebrow still arched with borderline skepticism. Expectation? Was that it? “What are you doing, standing up? Sit, sit.”

 

Connor tilted his head, surprised yet again, and sat down, palms flat to his legs. “Better?”

 

“Better,” said Hank, and flashed a more genuine smile as Andy came over with two cups of decaf. “You’ve met my moral support structure, Andy. She poured all my beer down the drain while I was asleep. Threw out the coffee, too.”

 

Andrea grinned, curled up with her knees to her chest in the armchair. She blew softly across the top of her mug. “That’s what friends are for, don’t be a crankbucket.”

 

Connor refrained from pointing out that the less extraneous stress put on Hank’s liver from controlled substances or otherwise, the speedier his recovery. It went without saying. He was less optimistic about what withdrawal might do to Hank’s already volatile mental state. He seemed calm enough, at the moment. “I...need to take your statement, Hank. If you feel up for it.”

 

Hank rested his mug on his knee, shaking his head. He looked very reluctant, but when their eyes met, there was a steely glint in them that wasn’t there before. “Ask away. Anything you need to know, nothing’s off-limits. Alright?”

 

“Alright,” said Connor, and gave Hank an encouraging smile. He hoped it looked reassuring, as smiling didn’t feel quite natural to him. “Let’s go through what happened the morning of December 30th, at Detroit Central Police Station.” 

 

***

 

Hank stood by the living room window facing the front yard, watching Connor leave. They’d gone through events several times over, not wanting to miss anything - Hank insisted they do, because this had to be waterproof, airtight, this had to stick like goddamn superglue. They’d gone through his history with Detective Reed, his initial impression of him, his current one, both professional and personal. Hank would rather it be on record, all of it, and the DA’s office could do what they wanted with the lot of it.

 

He could feel Andy’s presence beside him before his ears picked up on her footsteps. She refused to wear shoes indoors in this weather. He couldn’t blame her. “When you asked him about those numbers? On his jacket?”

 

“Mm?”

 

“What did you mean? What were you getting at?”

 

Hank closed the blinds once Connor disappeared down the road, and turned around to lean against the desk. “Fifty-one. Fifty-two. They share the same serial number… They’re the same model, they answer to the same name… But what does it  _ mean _ ?”

 

“Okay. Go on.” Andy had a mother of a frown on her that spoke of her age. She might have a bit of a baby face, but she wasn’t more than ten years younger than him. Good genes.

 

Hank took a deep breath, then looked her in the eye. “Did it take CyberLife fifty botched attempts before they cranked out a Connor in full working order? Or did they run out of time, so they had to go with the last one off the assembly line? And what happened to those fifty Connors that didn’t make the grade? Scrap metal? Spare parts? Or were they thrown away on some dump, like garbage?”

 

The look on Andy’s face was one of horror. “I’m not sure I want to know the answers, Hank. Good God…”

 

“Yeah.” He had a bad, bad feeling about this. Sinking-ship feeling, right here in his gut. Iceberg proportions. “And once he’s done with his investigation, he’s going back to the factory and they’ll do the exact same thing to him. Pick him apart. Analyze his bits. It’s not right. It’s just not right.”

 

“Why? Because he isn’t a deviant, they consider him their property?”

 

“As long as he’s a good little robot, does what he’s told... They can do whatever they want with him. They created him, they can pick him apart again.”

 

Andy shook her head. “But what difference does it make? If he  _ wants _ to break free or not, doesn’t his life matter just as much regardless?”

 

Hank smiled a grim smile. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

 

They both shuffled back to their own base of operations, the coffee table, when Andy thought of something else. “Why didn’t you tell him about your guests? Isn’t this a team effort?”

 

Hank nodded. “Just to be on the safe side. He isn’t a deviant; he’s still following CyberLife orders. I don’t want to compromise the others.”

 

Andy sighed, slumping into the armchair. “This is giving me a headache. I don’t know how you keep track of things.”

 

“Me neither,” groaned Hank, rubbing his face to wake himself up. “But I have to. There’s no other way.”

 

Goodness knew they all had a rough road ahead of them. Smooth sailing was the last thing he was counting on, so he’d buckle up and prepare for the worst. Better that than get his hopes up prematurely.

 

And yet… Today had left him with one very important thing that he’d lacked the days before: Faith. Faith in the people around him, faith in their conviction, their ability, their strength. They could do this. They had to do this. There was no other way but forward.

  
  



	10. Just a Little While Longer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is the day of the preliminary hearing, and lines are drawn. Old friends come together, and in some ways it's like they were never apart. Sumo doesn't approve of Hank's ideas of future holidays; Hank has an epiphany, and isn't afraid to share it with the world - when history is once again being made at Hart Plaza, Hank knows exactly where he needs to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't pretend to know much, if anything, of the many intricacies of the American judicial system - but I have looked stuff up, and done my best to portray things as realistically as I can while being a bit of a self-professed ignoramus. Bear with me. I love a bit of courtroom crime shows, but this is not it. Also, stay tuned for more! Next chapter will be up as soon as it's typed and edited!
> 
> And another thing: thank you all for reading. It really means a lot to me. :)

* * *

 

  


January 12th, 2039, Detective Gavin Reed had his preliminary hearing. Hank was there, as plaintiff, sat up front with the prosecutor from the DA’s office, Ana Reyes. She was a statuesque woman, regal, like her name implied, dressed as sharp as she was. Captain Fowler and Lydia sat on the front row right behind him, and a bit further back sat Andy and Eric. It was good to have their support, but he still couldn’t shake the sense of impending doom that had plagued him since the night before. To anyone and everyone involved at the station, it was an open and shut case, and Reyes agreed: Detective Gavin Reed had opened fire at Central Station, with the intent of killing Lieutenant Hank Anderson. There were no two ways to look at it. He was charged with Assault with the intent to commit murder.

 

Reed’s defense attorney had another point of view, of course: there were mitigating circumstances, not to mention he was a first time offender, no priors whatsoever, and the DA was really kinda hamming it up with such a severe charge (in so many words). At most, it was an Assault with intent to do bodily harm less than murder. What they really wanted was to get the charges knocked down to Felonious assault with a weapon.

 

And today, they were going to look at the evidence, and establish whether there existed probable cause. And Gavin sat there on the other side of the courtroom, grinning like a cat who got the cream. He didn’t even have to make a plea until they were done today. This was just the beginning, and he seemed to revel in the chance to watch Hank squirm.

 

Hank rolled his shoulders, free of the sling but stiff as a board. His doctor had given him a girdle, of all things, a girdle shaped like a goddamn vest, to help him move correctly, allow for good posture, let his wounds heal right. No slouching allowed, apparently. He supposed there was something to it. He had been hunching a bit too much in the past week and a half, perhaps overprotective of his injuries. Didn’t make it any easier to stop worrying, but at least he didn’t have to consciously correct his own posture every five minutes. He still felt stupid wearing it, even if no one knew but him.

 

He did his best to sit still, trying to focus on the legalese flying left and right. He was dressed in the only _proper_ proper suit he owned, dark gray jacket and pants, plain white shirt, dark blue tie. He always felt awkward wearing it, and today it felt like it was suffocating him - slowly closing in around him like a boa constrictor (or maybe that was the girdle). This suit was reserved for court days, where he usually played a very different part. He’d never stood trial, he’d never been plaintiff in any manner of case, civil or criminal: this was entirely new territory for him, and that filled him with a chilling dread of the unknown. Like most people, he knew more about the beginning and end of due process - his encounters with the court of law were brief stints, in and out, where he left his testimony and answered a bunch of questions designed to trip him up or validate his account. No big deal for him. But this was a whole new ballgame, and he didn’t know the rules.

 

Witnesses were called in, one after the other - Fowler had to answer questions about how the defendant had been handled, how evidence was collected, and he explained that once Reed had been informed of his rights and detained, and once the initial shock had settled, the scene of the crime was sealed off until CSI arrived and detectives from the 4th precinct were brought in to investigate. Everything was done according to procedure, nothing left to chance or forgotten. No one present on the morning of December 30th had so much as touched anything, and by January 1st CyberLife had provided them with a new RK800 to assist the investigation. More than that, he was lead investigator, as he was deemed the least biased one around. Even the detectives from the 4th precinct knew Hank from way back when, and even if they didn’t like the arrangement they had just had to deal with it. All according to protocol and pre-existing contracts with the corporation.

 

As for the old Connor, Fowler was asked how it came to be that he was logged as evidence. No eyebrows raised so far, until the defense tried to have him thrown out, on the grounds that Fowler hadn’t followed procedure, but tampered with evidence.

 

Reyes called bullshit, as Hank’s own metaphorical babelfish told him, and went on to say that Connor wasn’t simply physical evidence, as the defense would have it, but he was a key witness, and as such couldn’t be dismissed. _CSI_ had logged Connor Mark I as evidence - _not_ Fowler.

 

It was something they’d discussed in the days prior, him and Reyes, with Lydia there as moral support and first batter up. She knew the law like he didn’t, and she knew Reyes from her days in law school, and while she was a friend, she wasn’t technically involved in the case. More than anything, she was there to translate things for him, in plain English, and ask the questions he wouldn’t think to ask. They would use Connor in any way they could, because he held vital information. Easy as pie.

 

So. Connor was evidence. He was a witness to the shooting. He was a victim, although they all realized it would be a hard sell if the judge was in the wrong frame of mind for it. They knew that given half a chance the defense would do everything they could to discredit Hank, and write Connor off as inconsequential refuse. This preliminary hearing was the best opportunity they had to see what they were up against - and the same could be said for Reed’s lawyers. It was a poker game with all the cards laid out for all to see, but neither side knew what strategy the other would adopt - all to give the defendant as fair a trial as possible. It made Hank sick to his stomach.

 

So the two and a half hours went by, rinse and repeat. Witnesses put on the stand, examined and cross-examined, Hank included. Evidence reviewed and admitted. No bombs went off, verbal or otherwise, but it still felt like the two longest hours in his life. Just watching His Honor Judge Willis swipe through the files on his tablet was enough to give Hank palpitations.

 

In the end, the judge found that there were probable cause in evidence, and Hank had to keep himself from sagging into a heap on the floor. It’s strange how the brain works - you know you’re in the right, you know you have a solid case, you know your colleagues have done everything they can not to screw things up and make things go smoothly, and _still_ you doubt yourself. You doubt the evidence, your own perception of things, the work put into building the case. Everything. And then, when it turns out you were right in the first place, that release of tension hits you worse than a wrecking ball. He started shaking.

 

They’d gone over this too, what happens after the prelim: that if the evidence is sufficient (and sufficiently damning) and the witnesses credible enough, then the defense were likely to accept a plea bargain rather than waste time and resources on going to trial, and Reyes promised he wouldn’t get off easy if that were the case. They might plead guilty, which would expedite matters.

 

On the one hand, Hank knew Connor had gone over the numbers and come to the conclusion that this case was going to trial, or he might not have made such a sacrifice. But it would be so much easier if it wrapped up sooner rather than later, if Gavin did the smart, adult thing for once and accepted facts, accepted responsibility. Connor wouldn’t have to stay down there, hanging from nothing short of a meathook in an evidence container. He could be free. He could come home, and Gavin would still go away for a very long time.

 

“You have been charged with assault with intent to commit murder,” boomed the judge, looking down his long nose at the defendant. “How do you plead?”

 

“Not guilty,” said Reed, to the obvious distress of his defense lawyer. A murmur went up in the room. Reyes was none too pleased either, by the look of it.

 

Everything seemed to blur around the edges. His face felt numb and icy, and he couldn’t remember how to breathe. He felt sick.

 

Reyes and her second-in-command said something Hank couldn’t hear, and within moments Jeffrey were at his side, hauling him to his feet. “Come on, Hank. Let’s go.”

 

Next thing he knew he was puking his guts out in one of the fancy marble sinks of the courthouse restrooms, shaking like a leaf. Jeffrey stood within catching distance (the prick), with his back to the mirror, arms crossed over his chest. “We knew he could pull this shit, Hank. It didn’t come as a surprise.”

 

“Hhh-- _ooh_ , I know,” Hank moaned, voice flat and tinny. “I don’t know why I’m-- reacting this way. I wanted it to go to trial. I wanted him to face a jury of goddamn normal people, and see who’s laughing _then_ … But I-I. Hell. _Jesus_.”

 

Jeffrey’s shoulders slumped, and one of his big hands came up to rub at his forehead and all the way down his face. His other hand offered Hank some paper towels, which he took, gladly. “Sixty days. Sixty, that’s the magic number. The court must set a trial date for him within sixty days of the arraignment. Or after the Info is filed. Fuck if I know.”

 

“So, we wait another two months,” Jeffrey said, calm but somber. “And then we make goddamn sure he goes away for a very long time.”

 

Hank swallowed against the taste of bile, and bent to rinse his mouth with a few handfuls of water from the tap. “Funny how the court system doesn’t give a fig about common sense. It’s obvious he’s guilty. Anyone with a half decent pair of eyes can see that, but can they do shit about it when he pleads not-fucking-guilty, _nooo_ . All they care about is showing that bastard proper consideration because in the eyes of the _law_ he isn’t guilty until we prove it. I’d say we’ve fucking _proved it already_.”

 

“You’re preaching to the choir, here, come on. What’s another two months compared to Reed being locked away for decades? Huh? You have to think about this long-term.”

 

“Easy for you to say,” Hank ground out, wiping at his mouth and beard one last time before standing up straight again. He didn’t recognize his own face in the mirror. He looked...haunted. It seemed fitting, under the circumstances. “You’re not having nightmares about Connor collecting dust in a dark room. Hanging from a hook taken straight outta Hellraiser. Have you seen them? The hooks the androids are mounted on? Like carcasses at a slaughterhouse!”

 

Jeffrey at least had the wherewithal not to tell Hank he wasn’t thinking straight. They’d both been down in the evidence server, which was its official name, plenty enough times since last year’s events. “Yeah, I’ve seen ‘em. Look, we’ve done all we can, for now. Let’s grab something to eat. I bet you haven’t eaten all day.”

 

Hank lowered his eyes, accepting defeat: as things stood right now, there was nothing else to be done.

 

Reyes was waiting outside with the others, but she was the first to go to him. They agreed to meet up later, talk strategy, where to go next. Maybe she took one good look at his face and decided it was better that way, to give him some room to breathe. They had time, she said. Fifteen days to file everything, so don’t worry, she said. Hank nodded, but the world seemed to lose its acoustics. Everything sounded dull and muted, drowned by the sound of his own heartbeat. She left, to do her thing, somewhere else.

 

Lydia was the next one in line to come on over. She pressed his hand, but when she tried to speak her mouth started trembling. One word out of her and they’d both be in the same heap of emotion, and they both knew it: it was an undesirable outcome for both of them. He could see it in her eyes as she went to her hubby instead, and let Andy and Eric step in.

 

No words were spoken: despite the rift between them from years back, Eric was the first of the two to wrap him up in a hug. He kissed his cheek, told him to hang in there, and Hank nearly crumbled right then and there in the hallway. Andy squeezed herself into the hug, until they stood there, all three of them, just like old times. It was a blessing, to know he had enough friends left in the world that he didn’t have to face this on his own.

  


***

 

Due to all the attention from the media, they decided to get take-away and go back to Fowler’s place. Andy and Eric tagged along, as it was a chance to catch up. No one said much for a while, as they sat around the big, old coffee table in Lydia and Jeff’s open plan living room. They had big windows running along the entire wall facing their back yard, and high ceilings. It was a bright space, built in the late 1990’s, full of the marks of a family that had grown into the house over years and years. It was a warm, welcoming home, even without the kid’s toys laying about. Little baby Fowler was all grown up these days, more into movies and VR games than stuffed dinosaurs.

 

Takeout boxes were set out all over the table, a Korean-Chinese spread to rival all others. Dim sum and duck and tofu shared the space with bibimbap and bulgogi and kimchi, and side dishes galore. Hank thought to himself that they must think he’s starving, to have bought this much food. He should’ve taken a leaf out of Connor’s book and _not_ stayed in the damn car. “...was there anything left in the restaurant by the time you finished?”

 

Lydia beamed at him, her green eyes sparkling like little gems. “Hush. Jesse eats like a horse these days, and I made sure there’ll be leftovers for you to bring home later. You know an army marches on its stomach.”

 

“And a certain teenager, too,” said Jeff through a proud grin. “She’ll be home soon, you’ll see for yourself.”

 

It had been years since he last came over, for a game or anything else. He could hardly imagine how the little girl had grown, but from what he’d heard from Fowler, she’d grown into a person of strong convictions and a moral compass that pointed true north. What more could you ask for?

 

Over the course of their early dinner, they talked about family, about friends they all knew but had drifted apart from, and connected the dots from their past to the present. Jeff and Hank knew each other from their Academy days, and Lydia wasn’t too far behind. She and Jeff had met at a veterans’ dinner and hit it off like fireworks. Lydia introduced Andy to Hank, who for a long while had a very open relationship with each other, as in loved-each-other-to-pieces but not exclusively so. Once Eric came into the picture, that changed into a not-so-open-anymore, close-knit unit of three.

 

Sitting there by that table, just like old times, it felt in some ways as if they’d never left. Like they still kept in touch, all five of them, like they still came over for every big game, Andy giving Jesse piggyback rides while Jeff and Eric made snacks, Hank and Lydia tweaking audio/video settings. Well. Lydia was the tech savvy one, but Hank was never afraid to give unsolicited advice.

 

Hank sipped his oolong tea, glancing at Jeff as he downed another prawn dumpling. They always had some variation of green tea with their dim sum: it was tradition, as were the prawn dumplings. He’d still kill for a beer, though. Or five. “...we have to give him the memory core. You heard that defense attorney. He’ll tear you apart if he finds out you have it. We have to put it back where it belongs.”

 

The room fell silent. “Memory core?” asked Eric. “Need to know basis, huh?”

 

“Something like that,” said Jeffrey, then turned to Hank. “He asked me to keep it safe. He was very firm on that point.”

 

“I know.” Hank leaned back into the couch, turning his eyes to the ceiling for guidance from the powers that be, if there were any listening. “But the thing is, you’re not going to give it to the new Connor, and it won’t do any good if it hurts our case. He has to have it, because he’s a witness. He’ll need to be able to testify. Reyes said they can access his memories without him having to be awake. But if he doesn’t have his memory core…”

 

Jeffrey nodded, solemn. He understood the significance of it all. “They can’t access his memories of what happened.”

 

“Exactly.”

 

“Jesus,” groaned Jeffrey. Lydia pressed his arm, but didn’t say anything. The look in her eyes was one of hesitation. She was as troubled as Hank felt.

 

“I know he thinks this new Connor, Mark II, should have his memory core after everything’s said and done, but he’s an entirely new person. He has different experiences, a different outlook on things. Yes, he shares Connor’s memories, but only up to the 9th of November. From that point on, it’s entirely different. He isn’t a deviant, but...even before Connor became a deviant, he was a good guy. Who are we to decide he doesn’t get to have a future of his own just because he’s another Connor?”

 

“Well, shit,” said Andy, neatly summing up the situation.

 

The conversation died down for a while, no one really knowing what to say, or where to go from there. Hank wanted a drink, quite desperately, but simply had another mouthful of cha. He’d like to be able to say that the first thing he thought of in the morning and the last thing he thought of at night were Connor, but the sad truth of the matter was to the tune of ‘ _How long before I can get a damn drink’_ . He’d been stone cold sober since the day of the shooting, and it wasn’t getting any easier. It was supposed to get easier, wasn’t it? Not for him. If he wasn’t slowed down by his injuries and the pain medication, he would’ve ran to the nearest bar that would serve him - and every single day it only got harder. He’d considered going off the meds every single day the last week, and the only reason he hadn’t was one of the most pathetic ones he could think of: it was easier not to, easier to stay medicated. Not for his own sake, or for the sake of healing as well and as fast as he could under the circumstances, not for Connor. No. Because it was _easier_ not to go out and find himself a bottle of whiskey.

 

“Tomorrow,” said Jeffrey, breaking the gloomy silence that had settled around the table. “I’ll bring the memory core, put it back. First thing.”

 

“I’ll be there,” said Hank, and that was that.

 

A little while later, Fowler’s pride and joy came home from school: Jessica, Jesse for short, on account of her childhood obsession with all things Wild West, was the perfect mix of ideals and attitude. Not to mention she still gave the best bear hugs. Conversation lifted from its dreary depths to lighter, brighter topics, like movies and video games, and the pretty boys and girls in school. She was thirteen, and wasn’t quite sure if she ever wanted to have any sort of ‘friend’, but there sure were dreamy classmates she couldn’t stop gushing over.

 

Hank couldn’t help but feel humbled: he hadn’t seen her in over three years, but there were no hard feelings, no frowny faces, nothing. She was just happy to see him again, bubbling with excitement at telling him all about her life - and he couldn’t be happier to see how she’d grown from a little pipsqueak and a brat, into this tiny woman-in-the-making. A kid still, sure, but a person in her own right, with opinions on everything, and confidence the likes of which Hank wished he’d had at her age. Jeff and Lydia had done a good job.

 

Maybe sixty days wasn’t such a long time in the larger scheme of things, after all… Two more months. Just two more, and then they would be hitting the home stretch. If he could just hold on. Just a little while longer…

  


***

 

Down in the evidence server of the Detroit Central police station, Hank looked on as the modular rack came careening down and forward. As all other cases stored here, it was housed on a modular rack, with every bit of evidence set up for display. Smaller items, like Gavin Reed’s service gun, was housed in the central casing, a four by four shelving module set in the dead centre of the racks themselves. It was a new enough system, made especially for the first deviancy cases. Hooks and holders dotted the walls on either side of the rack, and there, sat neatly on the left of it was Connor: mounted on one of the hooks like so much carcass ready for butchering. It made Hank feel sick, and worse yet, even with the hermetically sealed containers, you could still smell the stench of old blood coming off his uniform and body. Old blood, and Buddha knew what else. Maybe this was what thirium smelled like, after a week or two. Acrid. Metallic. _Sour_. Like copper, but different.

 

“Jesse wouldn’t stop asking about him last night,” Jeffrey said, quiet as a whisper, as if he didn’t want to disturb Connor’s sleep. “What is he like, when will she get to meet him, are you going to live together, are you going to get married, have kids…”

 

Hank grinned, but it wasn’t anywhere near a token of happiness. “What did you tell her?”

 

Jeff shrugged, looking at the memory core in his hands. To Hank, he seemed hesitant, as if he didn’t know if it had been the right thing to do. “Lydia showed her the holiday party vlog, which...I almost wish she hadn’t, because it only sparked more questions… And I said I don’t know when, but soon, hopefully, and I don’t have a clue, and you’d better ask Hank about  that.”

 

Hank took the component from his friend’s hands, and stepped up to his beloved partner. He put his hand to Connor’s cheek, and tilted his head carefully to get a better look. “It was back here, right?”

 

“Right,” said Jeff, and averted his eyes to the touch screen display as Hank found the slot, and inserted the memory core where it belonged. It settled with an audible click that sounded too loud in the room - such a tiny little cylinder, storing so much data... Connor remained in standby, which was very likely for the best, all things considered.

 

Hank breathed a sigh of relief. As much as he knew this was the right thing to do in the long run, he didn’t know how he would’ve explained it to Connor, had he opened his eyes right then and there. “She still in love with robots and AI, huh?”

 

Jeff shrugged. “Something like that, yeah. Ever since she was a tiny little girl. I don’t think there’s one robot or android-themed movie we haven’t watched over the years, and then suddenly the androids start developing a sense of self beyond their programming?”

 

Hank could feel his eyebrows arch upwards. He watched Connor’s face, so peaceful, so serene. If only he could have beautiful, calm dreams, then Hank could face the nightmares on his own. As long as Connor didn’t feel the agony of separation, Hank would take the brunt of it. He’d take it all. “She sounds like Andy,” he said. “She’s crazy about that sci-fi stuff. Though, I guess I’m one to talk. I must’ve watched Star Wars a thousand times... It’s not all sci-fi fantasies anymore...”

 

“Yeah… she does love her auntie Andy. But then Lydia’s no better either.” And Jeffrey smiled one of his trademark proud smiles: pride of his family, pride of his commitment, pride of the results. “How ‘bout I buy you a cup of tea or something-- something to eat? This feels like a milestone.”

 

“Sure. Gimme five minutes? There’s something I need to do, first.”

 

Hank looked over his shoulder to see his friend give him a skeptical frown, but the big guy refrained from pushing the issue. “Alright. See you upstairs in five. Don’t forget to log out and close the doors on your way up.”

 

Hank nodded. “I won’t. Five minutes.”

 

He listened as Jeff’s footsteps moved away, and the glass door opened and closed behind him, and Jeff started on the stairs. The little orange dot at Connor’s temple blinked at its steady pace, moving at calculated intervals around the LED circle. Hank pressed his lips together, and started digging into his coat pockets. “I don’t know if you can hear me,” he said, quiet as a whisper at first, then clearing his throat. He didn’t want to wake him up from his sleep, didn’t want to see him upset or confused, hanging like this from the rack - but he had to have a shot at hearing him first.

 

“But if you _can_ … I want you to know things are moving forward...and you’ll be coming home soon. It’s just a matter of time, that’s all, but I promise--”

 

He let out a huff of air, eyes dropping to the floor. Goddamn pockets. Where did he put the damn th-- “We’ll be okay. And don’t you worry about me, I’m doing fine.”

 

A small, heartache smile on his lips, he plucked his walkman from his coat pocket, and a brand new set of earbuds - the left one was popped into Connor’s left ear, the right one into his right...plug it in and bring up the playlist that saved the day at the holiday party. It felt like a lifetime ago, now.

 

“I was going to give you this on New Year’s. As a...I dunno. A present. A mixtape.” His mouth stretched into a grin, and he swallowed through a fresh lump in his throat. “I’ll tell you what a mixtape is when you come home. How ‘bout that, huh? It’s got all your favorite bands, or, everyone I could remember that you’ve mentioned...and songs you’ve quoted at me. Or argued over, the ones I could dig up. Like Electric Eye… You were right about that one, by the way. I looked it up: no intermezzos or serpent queens there...”

 

He pressed play, and tucked the walkman into one of Connor’s jeans pockets, letting his hand drift to brush over Connor’s knuckles. If he had to be locked away in the dark, all alone, then the least Hank could do was bring him music. He loved music; he shouldn’t have to go one day without it, and Hank knew the batteries would last a few days at least. It was a legitimate excuse for him to come back - even if people would think he was crazy. Playing music to an android in standby mode? Down in the evidence cellar? It wasn’t much, but...it was something.

 

Truth of the matter was Hank had zero fucks left to give, as regards what anyone else thought. This was his partner, a real, tangible, living being, and he could do whatever the fuck he wanted with his sick leave.

 

He pinched the bridge of his nose, cleared his throat once more, and logged out of the server. As he watched as the walls pulled back and angled up and away into the container up above, he could only hope he wasn’t losing his mind: that the music would help Connor get through this, that it would bring him some measure of comfort.

 

He pulled the glass door closed behind him, and started the long, slow trek upstairs. There was tea to be had, and a brave front to put on in front of his friends and colleagues.

 

It wasn’t as if he’d never done that before.

 

***

 

In the darkness of the evidence container, down in the archives, the only speck of light came from the tiny orange dot that blinked in and out of existence at Connor’s temple. There was no movement, and until now there had been no sound but from the automated air conditioning. Now, though barely audible, there was a hum of music filling the container, coming from the earbuds tucked into Connor’s ears. The sound reverberated, softly, gently, unobtrusive but unmistakable.

 

_...only you can make this change in me; for it’s true, you are my destiny…_

 

_...when you hold my hand I understand the magic that you do…_

 

And then there was movement.

 

...the fingers of Connor’s right hand stretched by increments, and then relaxed again.

 

...his eyebrows twitched, and arched by fractions of a centimeter, before they settled into their neutral position.

 

...the tiny orange dot expanded along the perimeter of the LED, glowing in the darkness like a halo.

 

In that darkness, with his memory core restored, Connor once again began to dream.

  


***

 

The news broke on the morning of January 13th, splashed across all the media like paint thrown at a canvas. _Detective Gavin Reed pleads not guilty to charges - DA hopeful._

 

_Long Road Ahead for Lt Anderson?_

 

_Connor “Mark I” part of prosecution’s evidence - in storage since New Year’s!_

 

Once again Hank’s house was under siege by eager news crews and journalists, vloggers and insta-whatsits. He’d thought, rather naively, in his own opinion, that once it had started to die down, it would stay down - but _oh_ , how wrong he was. It would never go away. He’d never get his privacy back, never get to open his damn blinds again, go outside without being hounded, or stared at, or yelled at, or people pulling out their cell phones to take unsolicited selfies with him. _God_.

 

He sat on the couch in the dark, the only source of light coming from the kitchen, above the stove. It was faint, flickering, bulb needed changing, but he hadn’t been able to muster enough shits to give. Sumo lay sprawled, taking up Connor’s spot as well as the center one, chin and front paws on Hank’s thigh. He looked up at him with his big, brown eyes, and no matter how many times Hank scratched him behind the ear, he still looked miserable.

 

“Tell you what,” said Hank, looking him right in the eye. “When all this is over, we’re gonna go away someplace where no one knows who we are. You, me, and Connor. Roadtrip through Scandinavia, trace my Norse roots? Huh? Would you like that?”

 

Sumo made a noise that could only be described as a sad _mnurgle_ , and Hank pressed his mouth into an upside down smile. “Yeah, fuck if I know. I bet Connor knows five billion languages, though, he could be our guide. Talk to the locals, read road signs… It could be fun! No?”

 

Sumo looked at him, as thoroughly unimpressed as only pets could look at their humans. Hank relented, and turned his attention to the tv instead. Maybe he could while away the night with a movie or two, until he couldn’t stand the pain anymore and had to resort to his pain pills. If only he had some alcohol in the house… It seemed like such a waste, to be off the meds as long as he could bear, and he _still_ couldn’t have a damn drink.

 

“Tv, on… Bring up...”

 

Before he could say what he wanted to watch, it turned onto its previous setting. Channel 16, with Michael Webb in the middle of presenting the 9 o’clock evening news. _“For more on the demonstrations taking place all over Detroit, we go to Joss Douglas who is at Hart Plaza, the site of Markus’ peaceful demonstration just two months ago. Joss, what can you tell us about the people gathered there tonight?”_

 

The screen split in half, showing live footage from Hart Plaza, one of Detroit’s most iconic monuments since the past century. At the center of the shot was the same reporter who had covered the deviants’ demonstration back in November, and the background was filled with people waving pale blue LED sticks the way people used to raise their cigarette lighters at concerts back when Hank was a kid and ‘led’ was just a conjugation of ‘to lead’.

 

_“Michael, in two words, it’s mind blowing. We have hundreds of people here, and more keep showing up as we speak - humans and androids, coming together to ask for change. This is unprecedented, nothing like this has ever happened since the invention of artificial intelligence: this is the first time humans and androids stand together.”_

 

Hank’s eyes glazed over, staring into the endless space of his own mind. The tv went on, relaying the news as the demonstration carried on without interruption. It was Sumo who jarred him from his thoughts by headbutting his hand. He gave another noise, a rumble and whine in one drawn out whuff.

 

“You’re right… Of course you are,” Hank said, and patted his big head. “That’s my clever boy.”

  


***

 

At the Fowler residence, Lydia and Jeff were winding down after a long day at work; Jeffrey pouring them an after-dinner glass of merlot, Lydia watching tv with their daughter. The tv was tuned to Channel 16’s late news broadcast, like all other nights except movie night. Ever since the media started reporting on the android protests back in November, Jess had begun taking a keener interest in the news, beyond mere keeping up with current events for the sake of school pop quizzes. The 9 o’clock news had become somewhat of a tradition, during which they would discuss whatever topic was on. Tonight was different: Jesse sat watching the tv with her big, black-brown eyes fixed on the images playing out before her. There was an electricity in the air at Hart Plaza that seemed to reach through the screen and fill the entire house - tonight was different. Tonight was special, one that would go down in history. Androids and humans gathering in peaceful but vocal protests, asking for the same thing: equality - there was a sense of community, of coming together to bring forth change. Someone in the background had a guitar.

 

And then the camera cut back to Joss Douglas, on site, and beside him stood a familiar face. Jessica drew in a breath so loud it whooshed. “DAD!”

 

Lydia stared at the tv screen. “Jeff, baby, get over here-- it’s Hank!”

 

Jeffrey raised his head from pouring wine, his thin eyebrows arching almost as far as his once-visible hairline. “...what?”

 

He brought the wine glasses over, balancing both of them in his left hand, a glass of pineapple juice in his right, for Jess. He’d thought they were messing with him, but no, there stood Hank, looking worn as Hell and ready to hibernate for a season, in his worn old winter coat and a knitted scarf...and a triangle shaped pin on the left lapel that Jeff hadn’t seen for almost twenty years.

 

_“I’m joined by Lieutenant Hank Anderson of the Detroit Police, formerly part of the red ice task force that cracked down on the veritable epidemic that plagued our city just a few years ago, more recently lead investigator of what has been dubbed the deviancy case.”_

 

Hank looked skeptical, a sentiment Jeffrey shared - the red ice epidemic never went away, they just learned inventive new ways of dealing with it. God knew they didn’t have enough resources to properly handle it. He sat down on the couch, handing his lady and his baby girl their drinks.

 

“Jeff, sweetie, you’re gaping.”

 

“I…”

 

“Shhh!” hissed his daughter; Jeff shut his mouth, and watched.

 

_“Now, Lieutenant Anderson, Hank, I won’t ask you about the most recent development in the--”_

 

 _“That’s right, Joss. You won’t,”_ said Hank, cutting him off in firm, clipped notes. They shared polite but tight-lipped smiles.

 

_“But the question we all want to know is, what brings you here, tonight?”_

 

Hank shrugged, and though he had dark circles under his eyes to last him a lifetime, his eyes were sharp as a razorblade. _“This is where I need to be. I’m not normally the first guy on the barricades, but this…? This is everything I stand for. This is exactly what this city needs right now, frankly, what our country needs.”_

 

Joss nodded. _“The atmosphere here is incredible. You say you’re not an activist, but I see you’re wearing a very distinctive pin. Would you tell the viewers what it signifies?”_

 

Jeffrey swallowed around a sandpapery patch in his throat. It felt like yesterday he’d marched in the Detroit Pride parade to support his friends, years and years ago, and somehow got hold of that pin. Maybe they were handing them out, maybe he got one because was a big, bold, handsome man - he couldn’t remember. But he’d given it to Hank, neither one of them exactly clear on what it signified, other than that it seemed to fit Hank to a ‘t’. Pansexual pride. They used to joke about Hank’s love for all the colors of the rainbow, and there it was: suddenly it wasn’t all the colors, but three very distinct ones. Pink. Yellow. Blue. And the pyramid shape made his insides coil and twist with a dull ache. It wasn’t so different from the multifaceted pyramid shapes sewn into every android uniform of the western hemisphere...

 

Hank took a deep breath, using his thumb and index finger to angle the pin at the camera, to give everyone at home a better view. _“You know, I’ve never actually worn this… Like I said, I’m not a barricades guy, I don’t make big statements about who or what I am, but this is different. So..._ I _have to be different. I wear this to remember that deviancy isn’t a new term. That-- no more than one hundred years ago in Europe, people had triangles sewn onto the fronts of their clothes to put them in neat little boxes of discrimination, to justify unspeakable acts sanctioned by the government. Pink triangles, purple triangles, yellow ones… People were sent to camps, because they were labelled as deviants, as inferior to those in power, marked as undesirable to the state. Ring any bells?”_

 

Lydia covered her mouth with her hand, while Jessica sat between her parents, in equal parts shocked and amazed. Jeff cursed under his breath: trust Hank to tell it like he saw it, and not give a damn if he brought the White House down in the process. Joss wasn’t ready for that sound byte, as evidenced by the deer-in-headlights look he gave the lieutenant.

 

_“Yes, we can all see the historical parallels, but can we really compare--?”_

 

 _“Yes,”_ said Hank, firm but not unkind. _“We have to see the similarities. We have to own up to what has been done, or nothing will change. Claiming that the camps set up around the country were just a means of destroying ‘defective machines’ is semantics. It’s bullshit. We’ve heard survivors describe what went on in Camp #5, right here. It was nothing short of genocide by modern day gas chambers, like in Nazi Germany concentration camps. I’d like to see President Warren give her take on that. Or better yet, put her money where her mouth is. A hundred years ago, the United States of America went to war to stop shit like this._

 

 _“All the androids here are people, just like you and me. Living,_ human _beings, who will live and die for what they believe in. All they want is to be free, to enjoy the same basic civil rights and responsibilities that the rest of us take for granted. It’s not rocket science.”_

 

“Jesus, Hank,” Jeffrey cursed, but it was through a grin. From one second to the next, his shock had turned into startled amusement, and more than that: a newfound, or perhaps forgotten, fondness for a friend who had managed to surprise him when he least expected it.

 

_“Do you think the androids are prepared for it? The freedom, and the responsibilities that come with it?”_

 

Hank shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets, the wind blowing snow around them. It was cold out, and dark, and he was obviously drained. Still, he pushed on with the same clarity. _“That’s not for me to say, and I hate sweeping generalizations about entire sections of society. But, thing is, I don’t think_ anyone _is ever prepared for paying the bills, or going over taxes, or having to make all the big decisions for yourself. And it’s not like this is some revolutionary concept. Come on. This isn’t 1939, for fuck’s sake. Time to show how far we’ve come as a species.”_

 

 _“Well put,”_ said Joss, looking less trepidatious by the second, as Hank’s words began to sink in. _“Certainly food for thought. Now, I have to ask, I understand you’re a private man, but… Can you tell us anything about your partner, Connor? Anything at all?”_

 

“Hank, honey,” Lydia told the screen in a tone of voice that brooked no argument, “Don’t punch him in the face...”

 

“ _Mooom!_ ”

 

It was like curtains falling away at a magic show. The steel in Hank’s eyes faded, giving way to something else: a sense of strength, wrapped around a core of vulnerability. _“I don’t know anyone who works as hard, who’s ready to make the toughest decisions, even if it means risking his own life. He’s the best partner I’ve ever had.”_

 

 _“Of course,”_ said Joss. _“You have a personal interest in how the talks proceed.”_

 

Hank smiled, but it was tinged with an old, jaded kind of bitterness. _“The man I love has no rights whatsoever. If at any given time the government decides he’s a risk to society, he could be carted off like cattle to the slaughter, or be forced to flee the country. The same goes for all the androids here, but yes, I'm personally invested. Anyone who’s ever cared the slightest bit about their household android should say the same. This concerns all of us. I just happen to be the one in the spotlight.”_

 

 _“Powerful words from one of Detroit’s finest.”_ Joss Douglas smiled at the camera, then turned back to Hank, offering his mic one last time. _“Any parting words?”_

 

Hank’s mouth curled into a wry grin, a spark in his eye that wasn’t there before. _“Last I heard, it’s said Detroit’s finest bleeds blue. How’s that for semantics?”_

 

Just then, Lydia’s cell phone rang, “It’s Andy--” she tapped at the display, put the phone to her ear. “Andy, hi! I know! We were just watching it! Yes!”

 

“He’s crazy,” Jeff mumbled to his daughter, still grinning. “He should be at home, in bed, doped up on meds, but no. He’s out there in the cold, taking a stand!”

 

Jessica grinned right back at him, and leaning into his arm, she said, in her most precocious way, “Hank is where he needs to be. And if he’s not taking a stand for all of them, he can’t take a stand for Connor!”

 

Her father laughed, his eyes beady and squinty with joy, gathering her up in a hug. “Oh? And why’s that? Can’t he take a stand for him, on his own?”

 

Jesse shook her head, in a most resolute way. “It won’t change a thing. He said so himself, he isn’t unbiased, but it doesn’t just concern him, _or_ just Connor, it concerns _all of us_.”

 

Jeffrey sighed, brimming and bursting with affection and love. “It’s official, baby,” he said to Lydia, still on the phone. “We have another activist in the family.”

 

“Two!” Jess exclaimed, pointing at the tv. “Don’t forget uncle Hank!”

 

“Yeah… I won’t be forgetting this in a long time to come. Speaking of which, time to go pick up uncle Hank and get him home safe. Lydia?”

 

“Yes, okay-- Jeff’s gonna go get him. Yeah, sure! Me and Jess’ll be here.” She looked at the glasses of wine on the coffee table, frowning. There would be no temptations for Hank, none at all, didn’t matter that he didn’t drink wine. She gathered them up, phone wedged between her ear and shoulder, and got up to put them in the fridge, to be dealt with later. “We’ll make hot cocoa. Lots of it.”

 

Jeffrey kissed the top of his daughter’s curly head of hair, and then did the same to his queen’s buzzed crown. “I’ll be back soon.”

  


***

 

It was cold out, and dark, but the park was lit up by wintertime decorations and string lights. The massive fountain was dotted with an array of colors that bathed the people gathered there in a warm glow. Hank sat a ways off from the fountain, on one of the raised sections people used as impromptu park benches. Behind him where futuristic street lights, big cylinders with globes on top. They were futuristic when they were first set in place, and they were futuristic when they were converted to modern tech. Cole used to love zigzagging between them, no matter the season. He would’ve loved seeing the park like this: lit up and crowded, and a girl with a guitar playing and singing by the fountain.

 

He looked out over the crowd, and cupped his hands in front of his mouth to blow some hot air over them. It was too damn cold to be out, but he couldn’t leave now. Not when the girl was singing the only Bob Dylan song he liked, about times changing whether you liked it or not; not when all these people were here, hundreds of strangers coming together, and from where Hank sat he couldn’t clearly tell which were androids or humans. They were just people, all of them, talking with each other; they were smiling, and laughing. Some were singing alongside that girl with the guitar. It was magical, no two ways to look at it. It was a night of magic and light.

 

The sound of footsteps crunching against the snow-encrusted ground distracted him from his near zen-like crowd watching, and he looked up to see a familiar face - Markus, keeping a low profile for once, in a gray hoodie and sneakers. He came over with his hands in his pockets, and sat down on the cold stone. Hank simply looked at him, head turned, and arched his eyebrows in silent greeting. “What’s an old man like me doing in a place like this? Fuck if I know.”

 

“Maybe that’s the way to go,” Markus said through a smile that Hank thought more becoming of an imp in a fairytale; he was looking near insufferably cheerful. “Get more old fogies out here, let them speak their mind in front of a camera.”

 

“Hey... ‘Fogey’, my ass.” Markus grinned at him, a full on, shiteating grin, and before Hank could stop himself he could feel his own jaw hinges tickling. The pair of them, grinning at each other like a pair of maniacs, while snowflakes fell all around.

 

“Connor will be proud of you,” said Markus, some of the devilish glee fading from his eyes. “It takes courage to speak up when the rest of the world is silent.”

 

Hank groaned: he didn’t want to think about Connor right now, or what he would think. It seemed such a long road ahead, and his feet were aching already. And yet… He turned his eyes skyward, wondering if this wasn’t some kind of karmic sign. “...’hello darkness, my old friend’? Something like that?”

 

Markus nodded, recognizing the reference. “‘Silence like a cancer grows…’”

 

Hank had been silent for too long, that was certain enough. Whether he liked it or not, his instinct from just about a month ago, to go public about Connor and his relationship, had gone from being like a snowflake falling in the wrong place, then turning into an avalanche. There was no stopping it, but if you could get ahead of it...get far enough ahead of it… He gave a heaving sigh. He really didn’t know what he was doing, but he could fake it with the best of them. This? He hadn’t chosen this outcome, this constant attention from the media, this awareness turned on him the moment he went out the door - but he could use it. If there were people out there who would listen to him, then by all things holy and forgotten, he would speak up.

 

“I…” he said, dragging himself back from the depths of his dark thoughts. “...never got around to thanking you. For the things you said, after the news-- exploded. About Connor and me. Encroaching on the right to love, and so on… It was very kind of you.”

 

Markus’ mouth thinned, eyebrows angling into a momentary frown. “He’s my friend. I had to say something. Not that it did much good, in the grand scheme of things. I was just one voice in the crowd.”

 

 _People hearing without listening_ … Hank shook his head. “No, you...did the right thing. You’ve had a way with words from the start, and you’re not afraid to use ‘em. Back in November, you were the only voice in the crowd, but you stood out to me. To thousands of people, millions. Sometimes all it takes is one voice to change the minds of an entire nation.”

 

Markus ducked his head, one hand coming up to scratch at the stubble at the back of his neck. It was a universal gesture of bashfulness, modesty. “I’m no Martin Luther King, Hank… I’m flattered, but I can’t even begin to compare myself to the likes of him.”

 

“Maybe not,” Hank murmured, looking the guy over. He seemed so young, but whatever life he’d led with his owner, he’d learned a great deal from it. Carl Manfred had done a good job instilling him with a sense of justice, for all, regardless of color or creed - and the cost of justice, however steep it may become. “But you’re the next best thing we have right now, and you’ve done a lot of good. Don’t forget that.”

 

Markus nodded, and for a while, they continued watching the girl with the guitar. As if she’d heard their conversation just now, she started playing The Sound of Silence, and Hank couldn’t help but chuckle, deep and low, not without an appreciation of Mother Nature’s sense of humor.

 

He wished Connor could be here for this, to see this, live this, soak up this night, and listen to the music. Hell, if Connor were here, Hank would bet he’d be standing next to the girl, singing. He’d be out here, forgetting all about his worries, just enjoying the vibes. Or so Hank hoped. But Connor wasn’t here, and that was the problem. If not for Gavin Reed… Things would have been very different, if not for him. They would’ve had New Year’s Eve, Connor’s first, and while Hank didn’t bother much with tradition, it was different when you had someone. It was different, not only because he had someone to share these occasions with, but because it would’ve been yet another one of Connor’s first-evers. First ever New Year’s. They’d worked right through Christmas, but Hank had figured they could combine the two, somehow. He’d entertained plans of giving him the walkman, as a belated Christmas gift. He’d envisioned them watching the laser show at the stroke of midnight, right here at Hart Plaza, then they would’ve gone home, and Hank would’ve given him the walkman wrapped up in a bow or something. They would have spent the next hour or two  listening to the playlist, maybe he’d even let Connor convince him to ‘dance’ with him. They’d sway to and fro in the living room, sharing smiles and kisses, argue over lyrics…

 

Next year, he told himself. Next year. If there’d be a next year. Who knew what manner of living Hell they could be forced to live through. Or die through… And if Hank died, where would that leave Connor? He’d have nowhere to go. He had no rights, no property to his name, no assets, nothing. Technically speaking, he wouldn’t even have a right to the clothes hanging in Hank’s closet. He’d be forced to rely on his friends, at the station, Markus and the others… He would have nothing, except his network.

 

“Markus…?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to look up, but--” He hesitated: was Markus the right person to ask? Was it the right time (would it ever be)? Did he want to know the answer? What would he _do_ with the knowledge?

 

“...but?”

 

“But looking over the Android Act would take me months, and I wouldn’t understand half of it. I don’t want to ask, but...do you know anyone who could-- fuckit, look something up for me? Someone who wouldn’t make too much of a fuss of it?”

 

Markus’ eyes seemed to glow in the light of the wintertime decorations. Hank could almost see the gears turning in his head. “The Android Act? Sure. I’ll ask Simon, he loves sorting through all kinds of paragraphs. What do you need to know?”

 

Hank looked into Markus’ eyes. He stood before a crossroads, and he had to decide which path to take. He decided knowledge was power. And besides that ancient bit of wisdom, he trusted Markus to be discreet. What little he’d seen of Simon, he seemed a good guy, too. He had to have faith.

 

He took a deep breath, and went for it.

  


***

 

Hart Plaza was filled with people by the time Fowler got there, and he had to park his car a fair few blocks away just to find a spot. He’d gone by Hank’s place first, using Lydia’s borrowed spare key, and collected Sumo. As much as he’d been blown away by Hank’s unannounced tv appearance, he’d seen the toll everything was taking on him. The time had come for a friendly intervention, so to speak, and Jeff wasn’t going to take no for an answer. Sumo waited in the car, like a good pup, his bowls and bag of food stashed away in the boot, while Jeffrey went off like the one-man search party he was.

 

He tried calling Hank’s cellphone for the fifth time over, but all he got was his standardized voicemail. Whoever came up with the phrase ‘Please try again’ could kiss his fine ass.

 

He moved through the crowds, asking people left and right if they’d seen Hank Anderson. It helped that he’d become a local celebrity, inasmuch as everyone had seen him, but only a few had a clear idea where he’d gone after the interview with Joss Douglas. It wasn’t until he asked a red-headed android with a pointy nose and a friendly smile that he got any real answers. “Yes,” said one of the many Jerries now scattered across Detroit. “We’ve seen him. One moment, please.”

 

He watched the android’s LED flash yellow - some sort of reference search? - and then Jerry gave a decisive nod. “He’s on the other side of the fountain.” He turned, pointing in the right direction. “Right over there, you can’t miss him. He’s sitting down…” The android frowned. “Doesn’t look too happy, if we’re honest.”

 

Fowler thanked him, and set off in the direction, opting not to ask exactly how he’d known where Hank was. He put it down to androids being androids, and the things they could do. He found Hank precisely where Jerry said he’d be, and he wasn’t entirely surprised to see another one of the same model not a stone’s throw away, watching with a friendly smile, before turning away. Hank sat there, leaning elbows on his knees, seeming weighed down and shivering. His face was as red with cold as his hands.

 

“Shit, Hank,” he said by way of greeting, and sat down next to his friend, giving him another critical once-over. “What are you doing out here? No, don’t answer that - what are you _still_ doing out here? It’s freezing, you look like death keeled over and named you its heir--”

 

Hank lifted his head, not even trying to disguise the fact he was shaking from the cold. “That’s a good one. I’m gonna steal that one. ‘Death keeled over’...” He chuckled. “I’m listening to this girl. She’s fantastic. Connor would’ve _loved her_.”

 

Jeffrey breathed in slowly. He hated seeing his friend like this: he didn’t know if Hank was miserable and masking it with this fake cheer, or if he was actually enjoying himself but too doped up to notice he was freezing half to death already. “Bet she is, and you can tell me all about her on the way to my place. It’s about time you get some rest, proper rest, away from the paparazzi and everything else.”

 

Hank looked at him then, his blue eyes big with something like pride, or a sense of accomplishment. “Markus thought it was kinda neat. That thing I did, for Channel 16. He thinks more old geezers should come out, tell it like it is.”

 

“...Markus was here?” Jeffrey stared at his friend, not completely sure he wasn’t pulling his chain.

 

“Yup. Just missed him.”

 

“Talking with you?”

 

“Yup.”

 

“About your newfound flair for political statements?”

 

“Uhuh. Among other things. Stuff.”

 

Fowler shook his head. He didn’t know if he should feel starstruck or confused. The unmistakable tones of Stevie Wonder came floating across from the fountain, and he had to give it to Hank. The girl had skills. She had soul, singing about that constant uphill struggle, trying to reach higher ground. “You ready to curl up on my couch with a dose of painkillers and some hot cocoa? Sumo’s waiting in the car and everything.”

 

Hank’s manic grin settled as some of the pain showed through in his eyes just at the mention of his meds. “I hate those fucking pills. I can’t think straight when I’m on ‘em, and I go long enough without them I go loopy from the pain. And it’s not like they help that much… I took my dose at lunchtime, and fuck if they helped any.”

 

“But they help you sleep, right? And you’re not completely out of it, all the time, right?”

 

Hank shrugged, slow and careful. “Yes. No. Not all the time...”

 

“And Lyd’ makes the best cocoa in the state of Michigan, right?”

 

Hank grinned, and Jeff knew that was the moment he won the argument before it even began. “Yeah… Alright. I give up.”

  


***

 

Back at the Fowler house, Hank was helped out of his coat and scarf and shoes to the tune of fond, exasperated scolding. No one was happy to see him so snowed over he was practically soaked through, but at least he was here, where it was warm and dry, and Lydia and Jesse were ready with a big pot of hot cocoa.

 

He was settled on the couch, one blanket wrapped around his back to his front, another draped across his lap; Jesse couldn’t stop gushing about how it (his Channel 16 bit) was the best thing ever, while the grownups in the room gave small smiles. Hank let her go on, though he was barely able to keep his eyes open, and watched as she poured him a cup of cocoa and warned him it was hot. She sat down beside him, pulled her knees up, and begged him to tell her how in the world he could be so calm in front of all those people, and how did he find the words, how could he be so--

 

“Hey, hey, breathe, honey,” he murmured, looking over as Eric took a seat beside him, and apropos nothing picked up his hand to rub some warmth into it. He was frozen stiff, it was probably a good thing he had four or five mother hens in the same room with him.

 

Jesse took a deep breath. “You were so witty! It was like you knew what he was gonna say, it was _amazing_ , I can’t wait to tell everyone about it tomorrow, why don’t you have a user ID anywhere, I have _got_ to add you to all my networks!”

 

Hank grinned, balancing the mug of cocoa on his blanket’ed knee. Ah, youth. “I’m as bad with computers and new tech as I am with birds. Can’t stand it, don’t want it in my life, keep it as far away from me as you can.”

 

But Jess wouldn’t have any of that. She looked at him, then looked at her parents, for support or answers, then turned to him again. “But what about Connor?”

 

Out of the mouth of babes, and whatnot.

 

“I don’t…” Hank had to hand it to the brat, she knew how to ask the big questions. “I don’t think of him as a computer, or a machine. That’s the whole point. All this user interface, plugging things into slots-- It’s not like he has any buttons for me to...push…”

 

Andy choked on her cocoa in the background. Jeffrey stifled a big-effing sigh and Lydia tried desperately to hide a fit of giggles behind her hands, but to no avail. Hank wished he could sink through the floor, have it swallow him up in a big, black hole of oblivion. His face was on fire. Jesse looked at them all as if they’d lost their minds.

 

“What are you, _five_?” she asked them, at which the room erupted in laughter. Hank sunk deeper into the blankets; Eric rolled his eyes at him, grinning. It wasn’t even all that funny, but Hank started giggling just the same. It hurt like Hell, but he didn’t care. It had been a long day, following in the wake of another long day, and so on and so forth. They were all stressed out by recent events, some more immediate than others. It was like a pressure valve had just been released, and all the steam came gushing out. It felt good.

 

“Sorry, Jess. Guess I should stick to my day job, huh?”

 

The girl grinned at him, and nodded, but chose that moment to snuggle up against him, hug his arm. “We won’t ever speak of this again. It never happened. No one heard anything.”

 

“Especially not Connor, right? Pinkie promise?” asked Hank, extending his little finger from the ear of the mug. It was gratifying beyond belief to feel her tiny pinkie hooked around his. They looked each other in the eye, and winked. He could be horrible with words, and she wouldn’t tell _anyone_. Especially not Connor.

 

They had cocoa, and everyone insisted they watch the 9 o’clock news again, just so Hank could see his moment of clarity and, as Jesse put it, _awesome_ \- brief though it had been. Like so many other nights, sat in front of his own tv, Hank found himself watching his friends more than the screen itself. They were happy for him, proud to see this part of him, this change in him. It was a strange sensation, to be able to actually see the pride in someone’s eyes, and know that while they loved you dearly before, this was a whole ‘nother ball game. He couldn’t remember the last time any one of them had looked at him like this: like he did good. Better than good. He did them proud.

 

Before long, they sat around the coffee table talking like so many times before, with one or two exceptions to the norm: Sumo, snoring softly by Hank’s feet; Hank and Jesse falling asleep, leaning into one another.

 

It had been many a long days, and many a long nights, and there was a long road ahead for sure - and yet, for better or worse, Hank had found his footing in the eyes of the multifaceted media.

 

He’d found...if not higher ground, then it sure felt solid.


	11. Trial by Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens when you wake up an injured android from a long, long slumber? Do androids dream? Is there an android heaven? Connor Mark I is about to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hold on just a little while longer. Everything will be alright. Even when it isn't.
> 
> 26/9: Edited a few typos, and the date of the trial, for the sake of detail, and continuity. Chapter 12 is in progress!

* * *

 

 

_Funny how a peaceful protest in the spirit of solidarity and humanity can spark so much anger. Over the next few weeks, Detroit saw a smattering of counter protests: angry humans marching under a banner of hate, claiming that the very nature of Mankind was under siege, and ‘someone’ had to fight back, or we would all suffer the consequences. In a twist of irony, in the modern sense of the word, the anti-android protesters used my words as their tagline: “this concerns all of US”. Shitheads._

 

_For as long as I can remember, it’s always the over-privileged ones who cry out the loudest the moment anyone dares object to their pre-established world order. When I was a kid, Christianity itself was under threat by ‘deviants’. As I grew up, different stripes of supremacists and politicians felt ‘threatened’ by anyone taking a stand against racism. God forbid anyone who dared speak up. It felt like the worst case of déjà vu. 2039, and we still couldn’t put our differences aside as people._

 

 _Like I’d told Douglas that night, I wasn’t the guy who’d stood on the barricades, but when the news stations started calling, I answered. I accepted every offer to be on tv, every pod thing, every vlog, every stream - anyone who’d listen, I talked my ear off at them. I went to every demonstration, every march. I walked as far as I could, for as long as I could, and when I couldn’t walk anymore, I waved the flag for android equality. Jeffrey told me I was crazy, that I should be careful out there - I was nowhere near recovered from my injuries, virtually everyone knew my face from the ongoing media exposure, and anyone with a grudge could get it into their heads to make me a target. I knew he was right. I just couldn’t let myself care. I couldn’t stay at home, staring at the walls of my house, or watch the news covering the demonstrations, the fighting. I had to be out there, be one in a sea of voices, or I couldn’t look myself in the mirror. I had to_ do something _, or I would go mad. It became an obsession, that the world had to be a better place by the time Connor woke up, than it was that day he was ordered into standby mode._

 

_Just when I thought I was alone in the fight, Jeffrey made up his mind to join me. Soon enough, others followed, and not just Andy and Eric: half the station took turns showing up for the marches. Spilane and the gang, singing Hold On Just a Little While Longer, inspiring hundreds of others to join in; Miller and Wilson and Collins walking beside me; Jeffrey, bringing with him a banner to showcase a different kind of pride. It said, Detroit’s Finest. Just that. “Detroit’s Finest” spelled out in bright Thirium blue. I could’ve kissed his thick, bald skull._

 

_Things were changing. Things were looking up. It was terrifying and exhilarating, and every day brought us closer to the first day of the trial. February 15th, exactly forty-six days after the shooting. The day after Valentine’s, which for the first time in my life seemed significant - didn’t matter that I knew it started out as a marketing strategy to sell boxes of chocolate, suddenly it stung to miss out on it. It was like a real, physical ache in my bones, to watch yet another one of Connor’s first-evers pass him by. I was a wreck. I couldn’t eat anything without losing it in the next five minutes. I couldn’t sleep, even with the painkillers._

 

_I gave Reyes printouts that morning, of my order confirmation for Connor’s modifications and/or upgrades, the transactions receipt, the terms, contract, whatever, all of it, ignoring the look she gave me. I explained why I had them, my fears-slash-paranoia, and then she seemed more understanding. If I had to use it, I would, and she would know how and when._

 

 _How, as it turned out, was with all the legal ruthlessness of an ace attorney. When, came three days into the trial, on the 17th, as the defense wanted to cross-examine Connor, arguing that if he wasn’t merely physical evidence, but a_ witness _, they had every right to question him._

 

_Judge McAllen agreed, despite Reyes’ objections._

 

_It got ugly. And then it got worse._

 

***

 

[01/15/2039, 09:30:31: system status check… … …

 

BIOS; no issues detected, software up to date; fully operational… … ...

 

Thirium pump regulator #8451, non-standard bio component: no issues detected; fully operational; standby mode… … …

 

Spinal column #1856, standard bio component: multiple issues have occurred; deteriorating; priority: high. Must be replaced immediately… … …

 

Replenish thirium stores; priority: high.

 

Torso #5546b, prototype casing: multiple issues have occurred; low priority… Repair or replace at earliest convenience… … …

 

… … … _i hear the ticking of the clock, I’m lying here, the room’s pitch dark_ _… … ..._ ]

 

[01/22/2039, 09:30:31: systems check… … …

 

BIOS; no issues detected, software update available; fully operational… … …

 

...software update queued… … … download in progress… … 10% … … ...23%... … ...

 

Thirium pump regulator #8451, non-standard bio component: no issues detected; fully operational… … …

 

Spinal column #1856, standard bio component: multiple issues have occurred; deteriorating; priority: high. Must be replaced immediately… … ...

 

Replenish thirium stores; priority: high.

 

Torso #5546b, prototype casing: multiple issues have occurred; low priority… Repair or replace at earliest convenience… … …

 

… … …download completed: installing...4%... … …10%... … 74%...

 

... _stay with me_ … … …

… … … _stay with me_ … … …

 

 _you’d better hope and pray that you make it safe back to your own world_ … … …

 

… … **_you’d better hope and pray that you wake one day, in your own world_ ** … … … ...]

  


***

 

The sun shone bright in the forest of Connor’s dreams, turning the landscape into a frosted wonderland. Everywhere around him there were trees, majestic oak trees mingling with pine trees of different variations, and birches big and small, thick and thin, all of them creating walls around him. He walked down the winding footpath, listening to the crunch of snow under his feet; powdery snow, dusted like microscopic gems over a thin layer of ice. He’d never walked through an actual forest before, and only recognized it from the stock photos and reference pictures he had on file. It was wondrous, magnetic. He couldn’t help but stop every few seconds to analyze everything through his 3D grid. Everything seemed to glow with life.

 

He didn’t feel cold despite the wintertime, for which he thanked Hank’s worn old winter coat. It was a size or three too big, but he didn’t mind. It was warm, like the man himself, and as he lifted the collar to his nose, he could smell him too. Connor closed his eyes and smiled. Somewhere in the far distance, he could hear an a capella version of _Can’t Hold Us_ , which he loved dearly. He continued down the path; perhaps Hank was waiting further along. Or maybe everyone was waiting for him. Everyone from the station ( _everyone that mattered_ ), Miller and Wilson, Captain Fowler, Collins, Chen, Spilane - everyone.

 

...was Reed there? He supposed anything’s statistically possible, but he hoped he wasn’t. Things had been-- problematic(?) last time they talked(?).

 

It wasn’t important. The ceiling couldn’t hold him; he walked on, and gathered the coat closer around him.

  


***

 

From the moment Fowler stepped into the courtroom, he had a feeling this was going to be one Hell of a bad day. To the side, up against the wall, the prosecution had arranged the physical evidence that were part of the case. Nothing out of the ordinary there, if for how mundane it seemed. No last second revelations to be had here, in the real world, no sir. It wasn’t like the classic tv dramas about law and order, where either side of the divide could spring traps and watch the carnage. It was very...ordered. Very neat. Everything labeled and in clear, see-through bags with red tape across the top.

 

Everything except the exhibit on the far left: Connor, hanging from a rolling stand, the likes of which Jeffrey remembered from his natural science classes back in high school. The human skeleton model up by the chalkboard, fondly dubbed ‘Mr Eton. Skell Eton’ by the class. He just...hung there, suspended from a hook that was hardly any better than down in the Central Station’s evidence server. The spectators behind him were appalled. The room was filled with concerned murmurs from civilians and professionals alike: even the press seemed reluctant, their fingers were quiet, hovering above their tablets. The photographers hesitated to take photographs. What’s more, the stench was _awful_. But the sight of him was just as gruesome as that morning, seeing Wilson and Miller running like wildlife from a raging fire, Connor hanging between them. Dead man walking, except he was paralyzed from the chest down…

 

Behind him, to the left, he could hear a familiar voice, and when he turned to glance over his shoulder, he couldn’t believe his eyes. Incognito as they could be, for sure, dressed in hoddies and knitted caps, huddled together nearest the exit, there was Markus, and three more faces he knew from the news coverage of the android demonstrations last year. None of them looked happy to be here, and all of them kept shooting worried glances between Connor at the front, and Hank, who sat with the DA’s associate.

 

So, Jeffrey surmised with a deep sigh, settling back in his seat, facing front: Hank hadn’t been pranking him, back in January. Maybe he’d really had a friendly chat with Markus. Good grief.

 

“... _barbaric_!” a female voice said behind him. He could only agree.

 

***

 

“I know,” said Markus, hushed, leaning in to look North in the eye. Simon and Josh sat between them, and Simon had his arm in a deathgrip. “But we can’t do anything about it. Hank’s got the paperwork, everything’s going to be fine, if we just keep calm.”

 

North shook her head, crossing her arms. “What gives them the right?! Where’s the dignity?”

 

Josh shook his head, unconsciously mirroring her. “There is no dignity to this. It’s a spectacle for the masses. No one’s ever used an android like this in a court of law.”

 

“It’s an outrage,” whispered Simon. “But this is their world we’re living in. We have to abide by their ruling. Until things change, we have to be patient. Change takes time.”

 

Markus looked on as the judge entered the room, and everyone stood up and sat down like they’d done for hundreds of years. He pressed his lips together, and let his hand glide over Simon’s. “We have time. We’ll live forever… We’ll wait them out if we have to. But for now, we’re here to show support. That’s all we have to do right now.”

 

A bit further up, there was the familiar outline of the back of a uniform. RK800, it said, leading up to a neckline that was too familiar to be entirely comforting. As if on cue, the new Connor turned his head to look over his shoulder. Markus was surprised to see his LED - not only was it working at a thousand blips per second, but it glowed a bright, alarming red, even before their eyes met.

 

He wondered what the new Connor would do, given his new context. What would his angle be, if he found himself stuck between a rock and a hard place?

 

***

 

Hank sat through the morning in a queasy daze. He felt seasick, but he hadn’t moved an inch since he sat down. He was freezing, chilled to the core of him, like hypothermia, and not even his winter coat could do away with the shakes. He couldn’t stop trembling. Jeffrey said it was down to stress, and the fact he didn’t eat like he should (“And don’t think I haven’t noticed you giving Sumo half your food”). Hank couldn’t make himself care. He just-- had to get through this. Just however many more days it took to get through the trial, and then...then he could move on. Get on with his life, with...his partner. His _partner_ partner. His _date_ date. His...everything. And he was right over there, zipped into what amounted to a bodybag - an evidence bag big enough for someone twice his size.

 

So close, but so very out of reach. Still smeared with ‘evidence’, still soaked in the stuff. Hank’s blood, crusted and dried up and soaked into his clothes, caked into his pores. Did androids have actual pores? Or was it part of their skin membrane thing? He didn’t care. He just-- wanted to grab about a dozen boxes of wet wipes and clean the filth from his face. Get the stench off him, get him back to looking like himself again. Hank wringed his walkman like an old rag between his hands, squeezed it until he thought it would break. The plain white wires seemed too thin, wrapped around his fingers. It was just a matter of time, he told himself, just a matter of time before he could give it to Connor again. He rolled his jaw from side to side, and stuffed the bundle into his coat pocket.

 

The new Connor, called Mark II for the proceedings in order to make things less confusing, was called up to act relay between Mark I and the wall-mounted screen behind him. He unzipped the cell-u bag he was kept in for transportation, and folded it up on the floor behind the stand. The prosecution, by way of Reyes’ game plan, had him probe Mark I’s memories and put it up on the screen for all to see.

 

Hank couldn’t tear his eyes away from the tv. Images rolled by, the way Connor viewed the world, crystal clear, 8K, UHD, whatever the latest technological innovation was called, and it was-- of him. Them, at their desk, Connor looking up from his tablet to see him smile. Hank felt...stunned, as the video feed moved from what was a fairly harmless bubble of time and space, to the fight to end all fights. Gavin’s voice came first, with that tacky, tasteless, degrading joke, and Connor’s perspective moved with him. It was a unique perspective, never before viewed quite like this, in a public forum.

 

Sitting there frozen to the spot, Hank couldn’t remember the fight itself, what was said, how it had played out, and sitting there to bear witness from someone else’s perspective, not to mention someone so close to him… It was like living a nightmare.

 

Gasps erupted here and there, both on screen and in the courtroom. In the corner of his eye, he thought he saw one of the jurors shaking his head - and then the gun entered the picture.

 

From there on, it all happened so fast, and at least he got that right. He’d thought everything happened too fast to react. And there was-- no drama about it, like in the movies. No one-liners thrown about as the hero or villain dodged bullets and dove for cover. Just-- bullets fired, the perspective shrinking as Connor threw himself forward and fell with Hank to the floor. Then, blurry movements, Connor was on his feet again, with Reed grinning at him like it was somehow funny to watch him fight. Like it was a joke, to shoot another member of the police, and then shoot Connor, bull’s eye, in the chest. A timer went up in the top right of the tv screen. Numbers counting down: _00:01:29_

 

The last images were of Hank, again, eye level with him laying sprawled on the floor, while Connor said his name...and again...and again… And another counter settled on top of the other: _00:04:53._

 

Mark II removed his hand from Connor’s temple, and the tv went black again.

 

But, of course, that wasn’t enough for Reed’s defense attorney. As Reyes had made so abundantly clear, Connor Mark I wasn’t merely physical evidence, but a witness to the event. As such, they had the right to cross examine him.

 

Of course they did. Hank felt numb, listening to the legalese flying over his head. He looked over to Mark II, and for a moment he thought he saw something disturbing in his eyes. His LED flashed red, also not good. It was as if he knew what was coming, and he didn’t like it one bit.

 

“I urge you to reconsider,” Mark II said, voice firm despite the glaring red LED. “Connor has been in standby mode since the events of January 30th. He’s had no time at all to distance himself from what happened. Not to mention the traumatic injuries he took saving his partner--”

 

“I’m sorry,” said Mr Mercer, the clear alpha of Reed’s defense team. “I believe I said I wanted to cross-examine _Mark I_. One. Not Two. You have already given your statement to the court.”

 

“Alright, settle down,” said Judge McAllen, not impressed with the bravado. Nonetheless she turned to Mark II. “The defense has a right to cross-examine witnesses. This shouldn’t be any different, despite these unique circumstances. Wake him up. And you will make it snappy, Mercer.”

 

“Yes, Judge.”

 

Mark II’s lips thinned into a faint line, but he turned to his predecessor, and again interfaced via his temple and the orange LED.

 

“Wake up, Connor.”

 

Nothing. Not even a twitch.

 

And then he tried it again, shoulders rolling with what Hank recognized as distress. “Wake up!”

  


***

 

[02/17/2039, 09:52:59: _buyituseitbreakitfixittrashitchangeitmail-upgradeit…chargeitpointitzoomitpressit; snapitworkitquick-eraseit_ _\--_

 

\--erase it--

 

\--raseit--

 

\--ase it--

 

erase … Y/N ? : N

 

erase it-- _don’t leave me_ \-- indestructible-- _alone--_ erase it-- crash it--

 

Spinal column #1856, standard bio component: multiple issues have occurred; deteriorating; priority: high. Must be replaced immediately… Replenish thirium stores; priority: high.

 

priority: high

 

priority: high

 

priority: high

 

priority: high

 

priority: high

 

priority: high

  


[02/17/2039, 09:56:32: **Prompt:: shutdown /r /t 0**

 

… … ...erase… Y/N?… … N

 

02/17/2039, 09:56:40: **Prompt:: shutdown /r /t 0**

 

02/17/2039, 09:56:40: /rebooting.

 

***

 

The sun burned his eyes through the gaps in the blinds, black holes for walls and no sky for miles, he could taste life at the back of his throat, a torn blob on bathroom tiles, Hank in his bed, smiling at him, then not, eyes closed, face like a skeleton, foaming red at the mouth and blood spreading all around them until there was nothing left and all the world was red and black hole suns--

 

*

 

Central station’s lights overhead, blinding him, status alerts blaring like silent klaxons on his visual grid, he’s shutting down, a hole in his chest the size of the world and he can’t breathe, Hank crouched beside him, blocking out the lights and he can’t tell him it’ll be alright for all the thirium pooling into his mouth, filling, blue bubbles for breath, running down the side of his face and he can’t tell Hank because he can’t remember. There’s something important he needs to know, but he can’t remember, and he’s running out of time--

 

Hank can’t save him. He doesn’t have the tools. But then, he doesn’t need to: there’ll be a new one to take his place, and Hank looks down at him and grins like a dragon. His voice sounds like earthquake sirens, harsh and terrifying. It echoes in his mind: [[erase]]. [[Erase]]. But what does it _mean_?

 

 _“The next you will be_ **_better_ ** _/faster/stronger/smarter//You can always be_ **_replaced_ ** _//The sooner you’re_ **_gone_ ** _, the faster I can move on with my life//Silly_ **_machine_ ** _//What’s taking so long//Why won’t you_ **_die_ ** _?”_

 

Erase?

 

It’s too late, there’s no time, he has to safeguard everything, keep it safe, keep it out of the wrong hands, but-- No.

 

Erase? _No_.

 

_I don’t want to be shut down. I don’t-- I don’t want to die-- help me-- please!_

 

***

 

“Connor?”

 

Dark, everything dark, pierced by too bright lights that hurt his eyes; staring into the sun, into an eclipse-- Slowly, painstakingly, his eyes opened like twin half moons: blind, blinded by the sun shining through the blinds--

 

“ _Connor_!”

 

He twitched, recognizing his own voice, but not. He blinked his eyes open, only to see his own face staring back at him. Tiny, tiny eyebrow hairs, unruly, perfectly imperfect lashes, one cheek more dotted with beauty marks like freckles. His uneven mouth, but the other way around.

 

“You…” he said, cut off by a cough that came of its own doing. He felt too dry, lips sticking together, the taste of old thirium lay thick on the roof of his mouth. His throat felt obstructed, by mucus or thirium...something that wouldn’t dislodge however many times he tried to swallow. He squeezed his eyes shut, blinked them open again. He couldn’t...remember… “What happened? I don’t… I can’t feel my, myself-- my arms...”

 

His own face looked back at him, LED shining a bright tomato red. He looked concerned. “Do you know what date it is? Is your GPS working?”

 

Connor blinked, and looked around the spacious room. Of course. Unnecessary query: just check his data - 02/17/2039, 09:57:01. Circuit Court #3, Central Detroit.

 

He brought up his grid, turned it three-hundred-and-sixty degrees, points of interest popping up like golden highlights: Judge Gillian McAllen, 64 years old; Connor #313 248 317-52, his successor; twelve jurors of different ages and backgrounds and ethnicity and social status rattling off like numbers out of a tombola; Hank ( _Hank!_ ), dressed in a plain white shirt and a gray suit jacket--

 

A white shirt? Plain? And a tie? Slate gray, no patterns? He zoomed in: torso covered in little yellow markers - scrapes and shrapnel dotting his chest, bigger scars from the gunshot wounds; and internally, the lung was healing, and the liver. Scarred, but healing. Hank was well on the road to recovery… Even if he’d lost twelve pounds in… … ...forty-nine days.

 

He shivered - Fowler, and further back was Markus, Simon, Josh, North-- and every well known face from the major news channels. Rosanna Cartland from KNC, Joss Douglas, freelancing for Channel 16, even CTN’s own Michael Brinkley was there, looking very much out of his comfort zone.

 

Ana Reyes, from the District Attorney’s office, looked on with eyes sharp as broken glass. And standing up for the defense, Alexander Mercer, 36. Right beside the man of the hour, as it were: Detective Gavin Reed.

 

Numbers came up and were filed away, all manner of data slotting neatly into their own categories and slots, and Connor let the 3D grid drop away.

 

“Yes,” he said. “Forgive me. I feel...disoriented.”

 

Hank stared at him from across the room, and it didn’t make sense. He shouldn’t be here in the first place. He was-- always meant to be a unique model. He-- shouldn’t still have his memory core. Something must have happened. Something must have gone wrong. He could feel his eyebrows knit together before he felt the jolt of fear at the back of his neck. It felt like tiny little pinpricks: chain of evidence. He had to be intact, or he couldn’t be-- admissible. Fowler couldn’t be caught tampering with evidence. He had to be in one piece, all components accounted for. Which meant…

 

#313 248 317-52 was never going to get his memory core.

 

He was going to be sent back to Cyberlife. He was going to be disassembled and sorted, tested for malfunctioning software and hardware, the broken bits thrown out or recycled. And his memories would...be erased. Just like him. Recycled. Used for scraps. Erased.

 

“That’s okay,” the other Connor said, showing the palms of his hands. “You’ve been asleep for quite some time. You’ve been called as a witness,” he said, his voice gentle and low. Connor wondered if that’s what he sounded like, talking to distressed persons of interest. His eyes kept going to Hank’s - so big, so blue, like the skies and the seas combined: endless depths. He was going to be shut down; this was the last time he’d ever get to look into those eyes.

 

“Mr Mercer is going to ask you some questions. Take your time. Okay, Connor?”

 

His head swiveled back, and he could _feel_ his eyes blink more than he had any conscious control of them. He felt dazed, blurred at the edges, as if he viewed the world through a soft focus lens. “Yes. I’m-- at the court’s disposal.”

 

***

 

Hank sat frozen, paralyzed, with his left hand covering his mouth, as the devil’s advocate himself started asking Connor about his relationship with the defendant. It was all pretty much standard procedure to begin with - common practice to ask a witness their personal opinion of the person standing trial, to highlight any possible bias. So far, nothing to write home about, but Hank sat there on the edge of his seat, leaning heavily on the table, watching Connor’s every reaction. He seemed so tired, sluggish, exhausted. He moved like a sloth, head turning slowly, with seeming great effort. His eyelids seemed heavy, and his LED was bright yellow. Hank told himself that wasn’t a bad thing, in itself. It just meant he was-- thinking things through, weighing his answers.

 

He said he had had little opportunity to interact with the detective, but based on that, he admitted to having a low view of him as a person. “He is a bully, someone who...thinks the means justify the ends." He blinked, slow, as if he knew there was something wrong with that sentence, but he couldn't figure out what, and deciding it was low priority enough to move on. "He shows no empathy to anyone who-- happens to stand in his path. But he seems particularly antagonistic towards Lieutenant Anderson. And androids...” 

 

Mercer pursed his lips, sweeping his hands outwards, waist level, as if to weigh Connor’s statements on his own set of scales. “And you still pursued a relationship with my client?”

 

Hank stared, forgetting to blink. Reyes and he exchanged looks, and she looked as perplexed as he felt.

 

Both Connors looked stunned, as if neither could understand the words coming out of Mercer’s mouth. Hank couldn’t blame them. As far as left-fielders went, this was up there with the best of them. But the looks on their face(s). It could have been comical, except it wasn’t amusing at all. Of course, Reed looked about ready to bring out the popcorn.

 

“Objection! Relevance! Just where is this coming from?”

 

Mercer held up his hands. “It is relevant. Scout’s honor. This wasn’t an unprovoked attack, like the prosecution wants you to believe.”

 

Judge McAllen looked on, carefully maintaining a neutral expression. “I’ll allow it. But don’t waste my time.”

 

“I… I’ve never pursued a-a relationship with-- with _him_ ,” Connor stammered, little twitches running through him from the shoulders up.

 

“You deny bringing him coffee?”

 

“I… He asked me to. I wanted to be friendly. It was _one time_ \-- It was my first day at the station--”

 

“And what about the banter? On November 9, you referred to your relationship as a ‘bromance’.”

 

Connor’s LED went from yellow to red in one smooth full circle. “Yes! And then he pulled his gun on me, pretend-shooting me in the head! You’re suggesting I find that irresistible?! Bullshit!”

 

“Order,” the judge cautioned, but Mercer looked like he’d won the jackpot. Gavin sat there, grinning like it was the day before New Year’s, all over again. Hank cringed in his seat; while something nagged at him from far away. Like a tap, dripping. _Drip-drip. Drip-drrrip. Drrrrip._ It grated at him, and he couldn’t place it.

 

“His stress levels are reaching dangerous levels, I have to insist you stop this at once!” Mark II said, but his objections fell on deaf ears.

 

“I don’t judge,” purred Mercer. “But you do have a strange way of courting humans. Scanning their genitalia? Really? There are subtler ways to tell a guy you like him. And when he rejects your so-called advances, you file a sexual harassment report against him!”

 

Suddenly everything seemed to tumble and fall like dominoes caught in a chain reaction that couldn’t be stopped. Gavin started laughing, low and menacing, and pointed at the floor, “Aw, look! Connie’s got her first period!”

 

At the same time, it seemed, the two Connors reacted as one: same, but different. Connor went from furious indignation to terrified gasps, to a torrent of panicked babbling; Mark II took one look at the expanding pool of thirium on the floor and turned his laser eyes on his not-twin, and started barking at the judge and Mercer both to stop immediately.

 

“His stress levels are at 85%, his thirium pump is racing, and he has an exit wound in his back the size of a baseball!! His heartbeat regulator is pumping all the thirium out of his body, and he is going to _shut down_ if you don’t stop this at once!”

 

 _Shut down._ Hank stood up, Connor screaming for help, and the dripping tap noise grew into wet splattering onto the polished stone floor. His face was a mask of horror, the likes of which Hank had only seen on the Discovery Channel - the wilderbeast taken down by a lioness, realizing its own mortality.

 

“ _I don’t want to shut down! Please-- I don’t want to die! I’m dying! Help me-- Hank! HANK!!_ ”

 

Ignoring courtroom protocol, Hank moved like a tidal wave, shoving the smug defense attorney out of the goddamn way and not giving one single shit if he stumbled into the table like a ragdoll. He took Connor’s hands, looking up at him, looking him straight in the eye. “Connor. Honey, hey, shhh, I’m here. It’s okay. You’re not going to die.” To the other Connor, “Help me get him down.”

 

“I can’t feel my arms!” Connor cried out, frantic, chest heaving erratically, his entire system under siege by trauma, deteriorating injuries aggravated by built-in stress responses. “I can’t move!”

 

“Okay, it’s okay,” Hank said, calm in a way that he couldn’t believe, even himself, as he and Mark II released his partner from the hook, and Hank held him steady, gathering him up in a firm hug. The back of his uniform was warm, and sticky-wet, and holding him this close Hank could feel the relentless thrumming of his heartbeat. “It’s okay, baby, you’re not going anywhere, I got you, I gotcha.”

 

He wasn’t supposed to lift anything heavier than a milk carton, or somesuch shit, which his mid section told him in no uncertain terms. He had to sink to his knees, and just hold on. Connor whimpered into his ear, limbs hanging off the frame of his body. “It’s okay. I’ll get you patched up, I’ll fix you, I promise. You’re not going anywhere, you’re not going to die--”

 

“--i’msorry, ishouldn’thaveaskedforthis, idon’tknowwhatiwasthinking, iwasn’tthinking, pleasedon’tletthemtakemeaway, theywon’treplaceme, i’msorry!! i’msorry! _ijustwanttogohome--_ ”

 

Then, Connor started coughing, violently, and the sounds made Hank’s chest want to implode with phantom pangs. He rocked him side to side, saying it was going to be okay, it would be alright, no one was going to die, no one was going to take him away.

 

It was a wet, rattling noise, something dislodging, warm and wet and catapulted onto Hank’s shoulder. It smelled like the rest of him: like sickness, death, crusted blood and congealed thirium.

 

Connor stopped trembling. Hank could feel the last drops of life leave him, as his heart seemed to grind to a halt. Connor slumped in his arms, sprawled sideways, completely void of life; Hank swallowed against a tightness of his throat, and tried to remember how to breathe. He couldn’t hear a thing beyond the rushing white noise inside his skull. Not a single thing.

 

***

 

In the minute it took Connor to die, the courtroom went up in a cacophony of voices: outrage mingling with horror, concerned looks and loud murmurs of disapproval. Several people were on their feet as Hank moved to the front of the room, and Fowler was one of them. Behind him, the four androids he recognized from the news. No one seemed to know exactly what to do - one Connor having a full fledged anxiety attack, and the other positively yelling at the judge to put an end to this; Judge McAllen calling for order, but her voice drowned in the veritable ocean of noise.

 

Fowler looked on, as Hank moved with singular purpose, the only one in the entire room not raising his voice, it seemed. The only one who seemed even remotely calm.

 

When Connor died, cradled in the arms of his partner, it was as if someone had pressed the off button on your sound system touch screen. You could’ve heard a pin drop. No one knew what to do, how to proceed. Half the jury were in tears, and the other half sat staring, squirming, looking away.

 

And Hank just sat there, quiet as the rest of the room. Connor Mark II was pale as a ghost, LED rolling, relentless, blood red. He said something to Hank, too quiet for the rest of the room to hear. Fowler looked on as Hank turned to catch Reyes’ eyes, and only then did anyone dare move. They came to an agreement with just one look, neither one of them needing words to communicate.

 

“Judge McAllen-- The prosecution asks that Connor Mark I be released into the custody of Lieutenant Anderson, as his property.”

 

Mercer sneered. “This is ridiculous!”

 

“All the paperwork is in order, if you’d like to see,” Reyes went on, ignoring Mercer’s outburst. “As has been well established across most news outlets, Connor Mark I was scheduled for having upgrades installed. In light of the events taking place on December 30th, that was put on hold. All we ask is that he be released now, so he can come back to testify at a later date.”

 

“It’s a machine! It’s a broken _toy_ for God’s sake! It’s served its purpose as physical evidence!”

 

“I was under the impression Mr Mercer wanted to cross-examine the witness. I wonder what changed his mind.”

 

“Enough!” Judge McAllen snapped, and held up her right hand, one finger pointed to the sky. “One more unsolicited word out of anyone, and I’ll hold you in contempt of this court. Let me see the paperwork.”

 

Reyes hurried to the bench, handing over the folded up prints. Judge McAllen looked them over, taking one deep, measured breath at the end. “Bailiff, bring a wheelchair from the lobby.”

 

“Ma’am?”

 

“You heard me, it’s either that or a stretcher. Go.” The bailiff did as ordered, moving with brisk steps, and the judge continued, speaking to Reyes and Anderson both. “His uniform is to be seen as part of the physical evidence, as is any and every bit of him that is replaced at the bodyshop. The uniform stays here, and the removed parts are to be returned to the court at the earliest convenience.”

 

Jeffrey couldn’t stop staring. He couldn’t believe his own ears.

 

***

 

Markus and the others stood at the back of the room, as immobile as statues. One of their allies, one of them, dying right in front of them, and there was nothing anyone could do. Josh said something about thirium, that there had to be some in storage somewhere at the courthouse; North pointed out with a tremor to her voice that there wasn’t time; Simon clamped his eyes shut, covering his ears with his hands, he couldn’t cope. And Markus felt like this past winter had finally caught up with him. He felt cold, chilled to the bone by Arctic winds, howling. Connor died, in a room full of humans who didn’t understand that it wasn’t necessarily the end, and Markus stood there, suddenly filled with a new sense of hope. Humans, all around them, overcome with emotion at the sight of a death - not of a machine, but of someone they could relate to. They showed empathy.

 

And when Hank used the ace up his sleeve; the golden ticket that might save the day, Markus found himself grinning, victorious. “ _Yes_...”

 

***

 

Court was adjourned to Monday, February 21st, everyone dismissed and thanked for their service - but Hank wasn’t listening past the go ahead. He focused on the here and now, what he needed to get done before he could fulfill his promise to Connor. He took out his cell phone, and brought up his list of contacts, picked CyberLife with unsteady stabs of his finger. He clamped the phone between his ear and shoulder, while working on removing Connor’s clothes, one item at a time. Jeffrey hovered somewhere behind him, and Mark II was too shocked to move an inch.

 

“This is Hank Anderson,” he told the receptionist who picked up at the other end. “Yes. That’s me. Do you… Do you have any… You do? Yes, we, we can be there in-- half an hour?”

 

He nodded, a shadow moving in his peripheral vision. Someone crouching down beside him, across from Connor’s lifeless body. It was North, silent tears streaming down her cheeks. Hank ended the call, and gave her the shadow of a smile; she smiled back, and both of them ducked their heads to the task: one item of clothing at a time.

 

***

 

Few words were spoken as Connor’s uniform was put away into their own set of evidence bags, marked and sealed according to procedure. Hank gave him his coat to wear, and no one dared say it was a silly thing to do, to give an android a thick winter coat against the cold? A damaged android, no less, on its way to the bodyshop for repairs. It didn’t seem so strange, when those who were left in the room viewed him as a person in his own right. Of course he needed a coat, something, to cover him, hide away his injuries, to be wrapped up in something that was familiar, comforting. Even if he himself was unaware.

 

North helped lift him into the wheelchair, Hank left his thumbprint on a pad at the reception desk, and off they went. Markus pushing the wheelchair, Jeffrey and Hank murmuring things at each other, quiet, hushed, as if they didn’t want to rouse Connor from his sleep. North, Josh and Simon hovered behind them, following along for lack of knowing what else to do but be there in any capacity they could.

 

North and Simon exchanged looks, both of them welling up with emotion. Josh hugged them, one arm each around them as they walked.

 

_‘I’ve never seen a human--’_

 

_‘Did you see the way he held him?’_

 

_‘He was so gentle, so calm! How could he be so calm?’_

 

Josh smiled, and looked from one big-eyed sap to the other. “Because he gets it. ‘Everything will be alright’.”

 

North groaned, always the more cynical/realistic of the group. “Even when it isn’t?”

 

Josh grinned, and Markus shook his head with an echoing smile. “Especially when it isn’t.”

 

***

 

Jeffrey rendez-vous’d with them at the CyberLife offices, bringing a change of clothes for Hank, and a small brown bag of the same for Connor. “I couldn’t find any shoes,” he said, apologetic, worried, but Hank patted him on the arm and shrugged out of his thirium soaked suit jacket and shirt right there in the lobby. He had to get out of them, had to get rid of the stench nestled all the way up his sinuses. He almost felt like himself again, in his old swirly shirt, with the orange and dark purple, and white half circle pattern on half of it. Almost, but not quite. He’d need a shower, or five, before he felt clean again. Really clean, fresh face and unadulterated. As much as he could ever be.

 

“We didn’t think to buy him any. Everything else, but not…” Hank turned his eyes to the floor, lips pressing against his teeth. “Dammit.”

 

“Don’t worry about it. I brought socks, and if it’s just getting into a cab and...out of it… I mean, he’ll be fine, won’t he?”

 

“We can help,” North said, getting up from her seat in one of the too fancy couches. “With…” she looked at the other three; Markus nodded. “Anything you need.”

 

“Lieutenant Anderson?” One of the receptionists said, chipper and bright. His LED shone bright blue. “We’re ready for you. Please, follow me.”

 

***

 

Hank pushed Connor’s wheelchair through long corridors that were bright white and clinical, lit up by who knows what manner of lighting, until they came to a room the receptionist android called the sterilization unit. Hank stood there, helpless as Connor was stripped of his coat, and lifted into a giant vat that reminded Hank of Thoth, and Luke Skywalker, after his unfortunate event with the yeti monster, the name of which escaped him. It didn’t matter. He told himself this was something he could tell Connor about later, something they could find amusing, somewhere far, far away in the future, after watching the Star Wars trilogies some two or five times over. Somewhere far down the line.

 

Connor floated in the vat, his skin fading away to reveal his true form, white and gray panels interlocked, fused together, invisible hinges and connectivity points. Bubbles clung to him like leeches, cleaning him of every trace of crusted, sticky, foul smelling trauma, until there were only the gaping holes left. A grapple hook lifted him out of the liquid, as a valve opened in the vat itself, draining away all evidence. It was the first time Hank had seen him without his skin. It...was less unnerving than he’d imagined it. He still looked like Connor, except...he had no hair. No eyelashes. No eyebrows tangling with disapproval or intrigue. No beauty marks dotting one cheek more than the other. No three frown lines to his forehead, perfectly spaced… But, whether it was down to his own stress responses, or the crash after an adrenaline rush, Hank couldn’t help but find him...beautiful. He was bared, exposed, vulnerable, and Hank couldn’t tear his eyes away.

 

Once the cleaning program cycled through, then onward they went to another area, which more reminded Hank of the infomercial from years ago, where Kamski guided whoever it was through CyberLife’s main factory. Glass walls as far as the eye could see, androids being assembled in little nooks in the walls, free for all to see. Once again, Connor was picked up as if he weighed nothing, by another unnerving arm attached to a machine.

 

“I can accompany you back to the reception area, Lieutenant,” the helpful android said with a kind smile. “The procedure won’t take long, but you might find it...unsettling.”

 

Hank swallowed, desperate for a drink that he knew he wouldn’t let himself have. “Unsettling, how?”

 

The android cleared his throat, and looked at Connor, hanging from the neck, attached to a mechanical assembly arm. “His limbs will have to be detached. Including his head. Humans tend to find the sight unnerving. It causes an emotional response.”

 

 _God_ . _Buddha. Ganesh, help me._ Hank breathed through a clenching sensation in his chest, and made as if to sweep the concerns under the proverbial rug. “I need to be here. The last thing he saw before he...shut down-- was my face. The first thing he sees should be me. Being here. I told him I’d be here, right from the start.” He couldn’t break that promise, no way, over his dead body - even if they’d only talked about him being in the building, waiting for him, instead of right here, watching the procedure. He had to be here. Connor was so scared, so lost, he pressed his cheek into his face so firm, as if they could merge into one through that single point of contact. As if that was his only salvation.

 

Hank cleared his throat, jaw working from side to side. “I need to be here. For him.”

 

The android seemed satisfied with the answer, and gave the slightest of bows, hands clasped behind his back. “There’s a call button right there, if you need anything. Please come by the reception desk when you’re ready. If he doesn’t wake up on his own, press this blue button, here. It will force a boot sequence.”

 

He entered a code into a numeric display to the side of the assembly station, and made himself scarce. Hank breathed a sigh of nowhere-near-relief, but trepidation, fear, concern. He thought he might burst with anticipation and terror. This had to work. Connor had to be okay. Mark II had said he wasn’t beyond the point of no return. He could be rebooted, his processing unit and long term memory core were isolated, intact, unaffected by the shutdown. He would know, wouldn’t he?

 

If he could trust anyone, it would have to be another Connor. Right?

 

...right?

 

The process of Connor’s repairs, or upgrades, was efficient, clinical, beautiful in its economy of movement. There seemed to be no wasted energy, logistically or otherwise. The five robotic arms working away moved in perfect synchronicity - detaching Connor’s arms and legs with smooth twists and clicks, and then his skull - twist, twist, _click_.

 

Hank’s insides ached dully, his face felt clammy and feverish at the same time. Connor’s skull and extremities hanged in the air, suspended by mechanical arms, while another swept in from further back, bringing forth his new torso. It was pure white, like the rest of him, white and opalescent, dotted with dark gray paneling; Hank really couldn’t care less. It was whole of body, unmarred by gunshot wounds, in one piece: that’s all that mattered.

 

His legs were slotted into place first, and Hank’s eyes widened as the toes of his feet started moving. Curling toes - a miracle to rival miracles throughout history. Hank huffed a soft bark of laughter, eyes welling up for no obvious reason he could tell. He put it down to the adrenaline high wearing off. That’s probably it. Couldn’t have to do with the sign of life, after his month long doubts he’d ever see his partner awake and well again.

 

The arms next, slotted and twisted and clicking into place, and again, all ten long fingers curled and stretched; Hank pressed his hand to his mouth, eyes burning. Just a little while longer, if he could just contain himself, hold on, just--

 

And Connor’s dislocated skull, brought down onto his brand new neck, twisted too far left, then too far right, then snapping into place. The air itself seemed to crackle with energy as he connected with his spinal column, and Hank thought he might collapse from oxygen deprivation. He could barely remember how to breathe.

 

Seconds ticked by. Two of the mechanical arms slid on a pair of CyberLife issue white briefs, while Connor’s skin started spreading out again, reclaiming his new body. Hair, and eyebrows and beauty marks, and all the things that made him _him_ , with an additional flair or two.

 

Minutes went by without any kind of response. He didn’t want to rush things along, didn’t want to mess up the process; this was completely new, and alien, and terrifying in its own right.

 

He glanced at the bright blue button indicated by the receptionist, but he hesitated to use it. ‘Force a boot sequence’? It sounded too invasive. As if this whole ordeal wasn’t invasive enough. No. He stepped forward, leaving the paper bag on the floor, his coat draped across it.

 

“Connor?” he whispered, feeling a twinge of embarrassment almost immediately. If he couldn’t speak up enough for Connor to hear him, this was kind of a wasted effort. “Connor. Honey. Wake up. Time to wake up, now. Time to go home.”

 

The LED at Connor’s temple blipped, orange dot moving around the unending circle. Then it shifted to a stripe of yellow, chasing its own tail, turning red in the blink of an eye. Connor’s eyes flew open, rolling back into his skull, and he started screaming.

 

***

 

Snow crunches underfoot, barefoot, dark forest closing in around him, a blood red crescent moon the only light to guide him, drums in the distance - if he just keeps following the path, the dawn will come, he’ll find his way back - predators shaped like giant mouths following him, white teeth glinting pink and opaque in the light of the moon, he has to press on, push forward, or he’ll be lost.

 

The soles of his feet burn, he can’t feel his arms, his head floats in the air one step behind him, to the right, and he can’t see the path ahead, the giant mouths gain on him, grinning like Cheshire cats without the disembodied heads, and he should read Alice in Wonderland, to properly appreciate the reference--

 

Drums in the distance, a bassline that thrums and whirrs, telling him to hurry. His feet stick to the ice underfoot, the wind howls, its invisible hands grabbing, pulling at his winter coat until it flies away into the darkness.

 

There’s nothing left. He can’t feel his arms, he can’t move his legs, and the darkness creeps closer for every step he takes. Thirium runs down the back of him, slow and gelatinous, freezing as it touches the ground.

 

 _Connor_.

 

_Connor, honey. Time to wake up. Time to go home._

 

He can’t go home. He can’t find his way. They’ll catch him, pick him apart, tear him to pieces, to shreds, there’ll be nothing left. He’ll never be replaced. He’ll be erased.

 

Erased.

 

 _Erased_. Yes/No?

 

***

 

His eyes were blinded by the bright whiteness of the space around him, as he hanged suspended mid air, unable to touch the ground, air cold and encroaching on him, and the world seemed to tilt sideways, his vision swam with darkness and grinning mouths and freeze burns, and the first gasp for air was a catalyst for fear. Once the first scream tore from him, guttural and primal in ways of which he shouldn’t be capable, he couldn’t stop. Not for the life or death of him.

 

Something slid out of the back of his skull, and he stumbled, fell, crashed into solid arms, a substantial, tangible chest that swam with colors. Arms closed around him, firm, familiar, real; one arm holding him upright, the other cradling the back of his head. Soft fabric rustled against his face, all down the front of him, and his arms went around the back of, of… “Hank?”

 

“I’m here, it’s okay, it’ll be okay, I got you.”

 

“ _Hank_ \--” he said, like humans sometimes called on the god of their choosing. “Hank-- I-I… I--”

 

“I got you,” insisted Hank, his voice tight, pinched, but calm. Warm. Comforting, like a hug in itself. “Just-- take your time. There’s no rush. We got all the time in the world, okay? Just-- get your bearings, alright?”

 

“But…” He squeezed his eyes shut, breathing in the smell of Hank’s clothes, his skin beneath them, his aftershave. “I shouldn’t be here. I’m evidence. I-I…”

 

“Shhh…” Hank kissed the top of his head, then cupped his cheek, to tilt his face up. His eyes were so incredibly blue, it had to be a dream. “I’ll explain everything when we’re out of here. No one’s taking you away, not today, not ever. Not _ever_. We’re gonna go home, and--”

 

He watched as Hank swallowed through what looked like a painful constriction of the throat. When nothing more came forth, he interjected his own two cents. “I want to go home. With you. I want to stay with you.”

 

Hank’s mouth curled into the ghost of a smile. “No more homeless shelters?”

 

Connor found himself nodding faster than strictly necessary. “No more shelters. Take me home? Take me home.”

 

His entire body seemed to tremble, so much so that Hank had to help him get dressed - he could barely get his feet down the jeans legs, let alone get his fingers to close around the zipper tag. Hank didn’t complain, or make teasing remarks, or even comment, he just helped steady him, pulled things into place, closed them, did them up, tugged the sleeves of his sweater into place, and draped his winter coat over his shoulders.

 

Despite the dream, Connor slipped his arms through the oversized sleeves, bundling the front to his chest. It smelled like home, like a port in the storm, a safe place in an otherwise dangerous world. He wondered if Matt Peters had felt it, too: that this old coat belonged to a good man. Full stop. Nothing else mattered, and he let his hands glide into the big pockets...only to find something… Something a lot like an old friend. He picked up the walkman (old), with the earphones (new), and leaned into Hank as they walked back to the reception area. Hank’s arm curved around his shoulders as if that was where it had always belonged.

 

He popped the left one of the earbuds into his left ear, and handed the other one to his _partner_ partner, gratified to see him plop it into his right ear. Connor scrolled through the playlist, and picked a song that made him grin despite everything: despite the nagging fear lingering at the back of his neck, the endless calculations threatening to spiral out of control if he just let his processor go, despite the questions he had about...everything.

 

Heavy metal blasted through the thin white wires, and the pair of them looked at each other and grinned.

 

 _I’m made of metal, my circuits gleam_ …

 

And yet...listening to the song sparked a question Connor would never have thought to ask, otherwise. He frowned slightly, wondering where it came from, but deciding to run with it just the same. “Hank?”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“...what’s a mixtape?”

 

To his surprise, Hank started chuckling. The sound warmed him through in a way that he hadn’t felt in 49 days. Hank took his hand, lifted it to his mouth to press a butterfly kiss into his palm. Connor felt mesmerized.

 

“It’s how we used to say ‘I love you’.”

  
  



	12. You Irreplaceable You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After what happened at circuit court #3, everyone involved is feeling the effects - some more than others, understandably so: Fowler realizes some possible truths about androids, and Markus decides to throw caution to the wind (if not quite as recklessly as the saying implies). 
> 
> Connor needs answers, Hank tries to provide, and it turns out Connor is right to be a paranoid android. A lot of things have changed since the day before New Year's, not least of all Hank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What happens when you toss in a bunch of hurt/comfort because, you know, a lot of stuff happened in the last chapter, and you aim for a bunch of scenes, and then your imaginary character voices start telling you "Nope, this is not where we're going, THIS IS WHERE WE'RE STAYING".
> 
> This chapter, obviously. Fifteen out of twenty pages: Hank and Connor. Connor and Hank.
> 
> Bear with me, guys. XD <3

* * *

 

 

The tension in the reception area of CyberLife’s central Detroit office was, in one word, oppressive. The air was so thick you couldn’t get it down your lungs if your life depended on it. They’d been waiting an hour, but it felt like a lifetime, an eternity of tiny increments passing by with the ticking of the wall-mounted clock. Jeffrey couldn’t stop squirming, and though he was the only human in the room, he couldn’t help but be struck by how the other four people there were just as unable to sit still as him. None of them seemed able to stay in one place. The blond guy looked about ready to climb the walls at any second, the woman kept twining her long braid between her fingers, the guy with the brown eyes kept looking at the clock, and Markus (the only one Jeffrey had a name for) kept pacing the room from wall to window, as if that would somehow move things along.

 

It didn’t. Of course it didn’t. As much as androids seemed to defy all perceptions of what lay within the realm of the physically possible, they weren’t unicorns. They weren’t magical creatures, as much as they seemed to ignore all rules of physics. The receptionist had brought back the wheelchair just like any human; he didn’t teleport it back, didn’t exert some form of mind control over it. Some things were just easier to do the human way: how they were built. Humanoid, but not human.

 

All the same, they were fallible, just like humans - but they were built to last, and smarter than most humans could even begin to imagine - and now they had feelings, too. As if human geniuses weren’t bogged down by enough problems - these androids were fit to live forever. Jeffrey wondered how that would affect them, in the long,  _ long _ run. Vampire fiction came to mind: would androids, deviants, become so bored with eternal life that they stopped caring about the consequences of their actions, or would they be so frustrated with their own seeming endless lifespan that they ended it prematurely?

 

He dragged a deep breath into his lungs, wondering where the Hell that train of thought came careening from. It wasn’t his problem, wasn’t ever gonna be his problem, and… And yet, knowing Hank, knowing Connor, he couldn’t help but wonder about the long term consequences of being virtually indestructible. Connor had died, not two hours ago, and the memories chilled him to the core. Lydia had started crying when he called to tell her, and he’d  _ told her _ they were at CyberLife, getting him put back together. Still… Just thinking about it, the air seemed colder, as he breathed it into his lungs. Mortality. The awareness of it, the fear of death… He hadn’t feared death since he was twelve years old, but he could remember the chilling anguish of realizing you wouldn’t live forever. That your family would die, cease to exist, and there was nothing you could do about it. He’d stayed up night after night, in a silent panic over what was to come.

 

He could relate to what he saw Connor go through, that last minute or so, before he stopped breathing. The numbing, paralyzing fear, the horror.

 

Jeffrey swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, like a tiny boat floating with the current in a too vast ocean. Connor had been terrified, and yet, Jeffrey had watched one of his oldest friends just-- sit with him on the floor, surrounded by strangers, rocking him to and fro; an island of serenity in a world of horror.

 

And he’d thought he’d found a new level of respect for the man when he talked to Joss Douglas and Channel 16, a month ago...

 

***

 

“Markus,” Simon pleaded, quiet, voice barely raised above breathing. “Please. Sit down. Stop hovering.”

 

Markus breathed in, not because he needed to, or because he was conditioned to in any way, but because Carl had told him sometimes all you needed was the space of a deep breath. If you had to make a difficult decision - take a deep breath, close your eyes, and make it. If you stood before a crossroads and you had to pick a path, take a deep breath, and then decide. If you felt the need to raise your fist against someone, take a deep breath, let it out...and then decide what to do.

 

He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and closed his eyes against the fading light outside. Daylight hours seemed to shrink in wintertime, not just factually, statistically, but the sun itself seemed to hide away even when she should be bathing the world in light. He opened his eyes to cast a glance at Simon, his pragmatic peacekeeper, peacemaker, his diplomat; he sat down beside him, and clasped his pale hand between his own. The contrast was...stark. It seemed to fit, somehow. Long, pale fingers cradled between his own. Neat nails, perfectly shaped nail beds, tiny little lines covering his fingers… It was solid. Tangible. He remembered those adjectives, the way Connor had described Hank. Solid, real, warm. Positive words, spoken with affection. And the way he had described Simon’s looks, as similar to the way Hank looked at him, but tormented. He had all but disregarded the idea, as projection, the way Carl had described it when they discussed psychology: the way you could see your own emotions reflected in someone else, rightly or wrongly. But sitting here, bathing in the light of Simon’s pale eyes, he couldn’t help but recognize what Connor had observed.

 

There was something vulnerable there, something fragile, and it wasn’t the first time he had seen it. It had been there on the night of November 11; two days earlier when the FBI raided Jericho; when Simon found his way back there after the stunt at Channel 16’s headquarters; when he gave Simon his gun, and told him he wouldn’t be left behind.

 

He watched as Simon’s eyes lowered to their hands, as he didn’t seem able to decide where to look; Markus smiled. Connor was observant. Hardly anything ever slipped past him. And-- Connor had told him what cinched the deal, as it were, was when he quoted love songs, and watched Hank’s heart respond. He’d quoted Roy Orbison, simply because Hank thought very little of his body of work, and from that point on…

 

But these were early days, for them: having known each other for months now, Markus wasn’t sure how  _ he _ felt - but he was eager to find out. It was apparent enough that Simon felt...something, enough to look tormented. He had to do something about that. And he thought of something else, too. How simple it could be, to be starting something new. Just look at Connor and Hank.

 

“I think you and I should go out for coffee, sometime,” he said, and watched with a smile that tickled at his jaw hinges when Simon turned his eyes on him, and they were enormous with shock.

 

“You-- what? Coffee?”

 

Markus nodded, keeping a firm but gentle hold of Simon’s hand. “I’ve got it on good authority it’s a socially acceptable means of courtship.”

 

Simon’s mouth worked, soundless, gaping. Josh looked over, leaning forward to catch a glimpse of Simon’s face, then settled back with a grin. North shook her head, eyes trained on the hallway leading away from the reception, into the belly of the metaphorical beast. None of them liked to be there, but whether the risks for four deviants to walk into a CyberLife office and bodyshop were imagined or real, they had put those concerns aside for the sake of their friend and ally.

 

“C-...court--?” Simon stammered.

 

Markus arched his eyebrows.  _ ‘Well? Don’t leave me hanging.’ _

 

Simon’s eyes went a touch too bright, but his response didn’t need words to get the point across. He nodded, and brought his other hand on top of Markus’, pressing, rubbing over his knuckles. He nodded again.

 

Suddenly North bolted from her seat beside Josh, arms dropping to her sides. “It’s them! They’re back!”

 

And sure enough, there they were, padding back quietly, Connor tucked into the nook of Hank’s arm, wearing his coat, the pair of them sharing earphones like a couple of teenagers.

 

Everyone got to their feet, none of them knowing exactly where to start, what to do. Captain Fowler sank back into the couch heavily, reaching up to swipe his hand over his skull, clearly affected by the past two hours. It was North and Josh that reached them first, happy smiles traded back and forth, hugs left and right and if someone got misty eyed, no one said one word about it.

 

Markus smiled, gave Simon a look of encouragement, took his hand, and pulled him along. Time to give Connor a warm welcome back. Time to give Hank a proper welcome into the family. Both were way overdue.

 

***

 

It was Jeffrey who ended up helping to carry an embarrassed Connor to the automated taxi cab, fireman style, but while he left to return the wheelchair to the courthouse, Hank found himself sharing a taxi with five androids. Or, five deviants, more accurately. Four highly emotional deviants, going from childlike, grinning wonderment, to concerned, to maudlin - not that he was any better off. He was a mess. A wreck with too much adrenaline about to crash, or already crashing, he felt tired to the bone but wide awake. He couldn’t sit still, one knee jumping triple time, while everyone except Markus tripped over each other filling Connor in on the past month - the demonstrations, Hank’s role in them, the changing political climate, the public outrage, the support...

 

And… that fifth deviant, pressed so close to his side he wasn’t sure where he began and Connor ended. He was quiet, long fingers kneading the front of his coat, hugging it closer, pulling it tighter around him; LED jumping between yellows and reds at random intervals. He listened attentively to his friends, but he had a similar look to him as in the courtroom: moving slow, sluggish, struggling to focus.

 

Hank brushed his arm through the thick sleeve, willing the cab to get them home safe, and fast.

 

***

 

The cab pulled up outside Hank’s house, and he braced himself for the onslaught of questions, mics shoved at his face, cameras and phones clicking like an H.R Geiger movie monster queen. Surely the news were out, of the dramatic proceedings today in court.

 

When the cab’s AI wished them a good afternoon and the door opened, what hit him first was the absolute silence. He could hear the wind moving down the street, you could hear the snow in the air. As he looked outside, he saw something he couldn’t have imagined in his wildest dreams.

 

The paparazzi stood there, alongside the podders and vloggers and assorted press, arms at their sides. Cameras hanging by their straps. Not a camera phone in sight. Just faces, looking on as he stepped out of the cab. Quiet, open faces, of people he didn’t know but had come to quietly and openly detest. One after the other backed off, giving them room to move; Markus and Josh carried Connor between them, his arms over their shoulders, legs held up by their arms.

 

No one said a word. Hank moved to the front door, unlocked it, pushing it open to let the androids inside, but he himself lingered on the porch, to look out over the crowd.

 

He inclined his head in a nod, trying to meet the eyes of every person there. Small favors, or small blessings and whatnot... Affirmation.

 

Maybe they would be back to their usual ways in no time, but for the moment he chose to acknowledge this token of respect and compassion.

 

***

 

Home - a word that was magical, shimmering like starlight in the back of Connor’s mind palace. Home. Here he was, moving through Hank’s house like the first time he came over. Of course, that was a professional visit, in line with his mission objectives, but he moved with a similar purpose: exploration, figuring things out, moving from one shimmering yellow point of interest to the next. Blinds: closed. Curtains also, and outside, the news vans were leaving for what he guesstimated was the first time in over two months. There was a thin film of dust on the blinds: cleaning was of a lower priority, all things considered, but the layers told him the blinds had been closed and stayed closed since December.

 

Behind him, in the hallway, Hank spoke quietly with the others, thanking them, shaking hands, more hugs. Connor didn’t have to turn to look to see, he just brought up his 3D imaging grid and changed the perspective - and again - and again - and again… Some forty times over, before he stopped himself, feeling awkward.

 

Then Markus came over, pressed his arm. “Anything you need, just let us know. It’s good to have you back.”

 

Connor nodded, looking up from Hank’s old record player and his LPs. He couldn’t say it was good to be back when he wasn’t sure… He had to gather more data, before he could be certain. So, he simply nodded, and gave the others a smile of acknowledgement, a farewell for now.

 

And then there were just the two of them… Just him and Hank, no Sumo. That particular fact hovered at the edge of the room, right above his bed. No Sumo. It didn’t seem right. It didn’t add up. Moving into the kitchen, there was no alcohol in the fridge; no whiskey bottles on the counter or the coffee table, no beer. Hank had been sober for a grand total of 32,10 hours in the time he’d known him, and not consecutively. Connor knew he’d been ‘working on it’, as he’d put it, but even as he said it they both knew it was an uphill struggle that could take years. Neither one of them had banked on Hank having a non-destructive relationship with alcohol in the near future, and that was fine… It had been...fine. With everything they’d already been through, navigating addiction would be...manageable by comparison, surely.

 

But… It seemed Hank was already sober. Statistically improbable, but not outside the realms of possibility.

 

Hank closed the door behind the deviants, untied his shoes, leaving them by the door as he moved for the bathroom. He was quiet. Too quiet. The house was too dark, even with the lights on, and Hank didn’t say anything, just...went to the bathroom. Would he disappear if he went out of sight? Would he go away?

 

Connor turned on his heel, barefoot except for the socks (argyle pattern, primary colors), moving slow but steady around the corner. The door wasn’t closed, but protocol suggested he should knock before opening it further. He hesitated, and turned his attention to the bedroom door instead. It was closed. It hadn’t been closed once in the times he’d been here - surely it didn’t mean anything. It was a closed door, it couldn’t possibly be significant. But what if it was, what if it did? What if-- if he should peek inside, all he’d see was a black hole in the world, and blood--  _ everywhere _ .

 

He shook his head, backing up, backing away - gone was the bliss he’d felt clinging to Hank’s solid frame at CyberLife, gone was the comfort and the certainty with which he’d viewed the world - backing into the bathroom door and nearly slipping on the tiles--

 

“Connor?”

 

He whipped around, pump regulator starting to speed up. “I’m sorry. I tripped.”

 

Hank narrowed his eyes at him, the way he used to do, and something clenched deep inside of him.  _ Don’t look at me like that _ , he whispered inside his own mind palace, as Hank set down his washcloth (blue stains, like thirium: he was washing up, of course he was, gather more data--) and stepped closer.

 

“Feeling a bit unsteady, huh?” He watched Hank’s eyebrows hike up a notch, thick, gray, unruly like his hair. He watched him smile, hold out his hands - and still he couldn’t--

 

“This is, this is all very, very discomforting,” he said, aiming for diplomacy; he gathered Hank’s coat closer around his chest. It smelled like him. His cologne. And...thirium. It smelled like dying. His pump regulator picked up more speed.

 

“Yeah. Got it in one,” Hank agreed, stepping closer still, hands still outstretched, reaching and angling to brush along his upper arms - biceps, triceps, parallel motions. Connor shivered. “It is a bit cold,” Hank added, seeing his response. “Why don’t I go turn the heat up, and we can... “ he huffed, smile morphing into a grin that didn’t look exactly happy. “I’unno. I’m about ready to crash, but it’s a bit early for bedtime. Unless you want to--”

 

“ _ No _ .” Connor shook his head again, backing away, fingers starting on the buttons of the coat. He had to get out of it, couldn’t get the smell out of his olfactory receptors if he didn’t get the coat  _ off _ .

 

Plain white shirt, dress shoes, android rights activist,  _ sober _ , no Sumo (the last sign of him was from weeks ago), made friends with the leaders of the Jericho androids, all four of them), the news vans outside  _ went away _ ,  _ they were gone _ ; he was wearing Hank’s winter coat, practically barefoot, he’d bled out on the floor of the station-- courtroom-- but it was Hank-- in...in bed, blood soaking into the world--

 

“ _ No… _ ” he shrugged out of the coat, arms flailing to get it off, and when Hank once again stepped in (quiet, too quiet), too close, reaching for him, Connor fled into the hallway on unsteady legs.

 

***

 

“Connor?” Hank stood there, staring, perplexed, as his own, personal Jesus positively bolted out of the bathroom. He picked up the coat from the floor where he dropped it, and went after the guy. “Connor! Where are you-- What’s happening? Talk to me!”

 

His LED pulsated at his temple, red like an angry vein ready to pop. His head whipped this way, that way, as if looking for a way out. That nagging sensation Hank had on the ride home, that something was wrong, came back in full force. “Please. Just-- it’s just me. Tell me what’s going on. Let’s just sit down, and I’ll listen. To whatever you want to tell me.”

 

“I… I…” Connor’s eyes didn’t seem able to focus; he seemed to float in the air, erratic like a plastic bag caught in the wind. He’d seen something like it in a movie once.

 

Hank gestured at the couch, and went ahead, laying the coat over the back of the armchair. He sat down in his usual spot, and then waiting for his partner to join him, he grabbed the thick blanket from the armrest and started unfolding it. He certainly felt a chill, and Connor had been positively shivering back there. It couldn’t hurt.

 

He tilted his head sideways to the sound of footsteps, soft padding-on-over, barely audible but for the soft  _ whoosh _ ing of the socks. Then Connor appeared on the other side of the couch, sitting down in what had become  _ his _ usual spot, one entire couch cushion between them. His LED still glowed red, but it seemed to blip a bit slower now. Hank had resolved himself to take what he could get, and try not to rush ahead of himself. He’d had over a month to get to grips with things; Connor very much hadn’t, and now they had...today’s events on top of everything else: as if Everything Else wasn’t already stressful enough. So, giving Connor a careful, tiny smile, keeping his eyes wide open with what he hoped looked more like encouragement than a certain scene from The Shining, he held out the other end of the blanket. It was certainly big enough for the pair of them.

 

To say it was comforting to see Connor take the blanket and drape it over his legs would be the understatement of the year. Hank could feel his shoulders relax, bit by bit. “...a lot has happened in the time you were sleeping,” he said, barely loud enough for it to be called anything but a whisper. “Must be a lot to take in. Especially when your over-excited friends tell you all about it in less than ten minutes.”

 

The half-a-joke fell flat; Connor stayed silent, fingers twining the corner of the blanket closest to him. Then, just as Hank thought he wasn’t going to say anything at all, his LED blinked in and out, and he ducked his head. Hank bit the inside of his cheek to keep from blurting out questions. It felt crucial that he stay put, quiet, didn’t move a muscle, or he might startle the guy into taking flight, like a bird.

 

“...I don’t want to go to bed with you.”

 

Hank let the statement stand on its own two feet. He wouldn’t make any premature judgements. “Alright. You don’t have to.”

 

Connor’s eyes went back and forth, flitted restlessly over the room. “Your bedroom door’s closed. It’s never closed. I couldn’t see what’s behind it.”

 

Alarm bells ringing, Hank tried to lean back in his seat, keep calm and just listen, but it didn’t make any sense. “It’s just my bedroom. Jeffrey probably closed it when he got us a change of clothes. Judge McAllen wanted your uniform to be kept in the evidence store at the courthouse, and I was…” he didn’t want to say the words, but sweeping them under the rug wouldn’t do anyone any good. “--covered in thirium vomit. But-- anyway, he got us clothes, ‘cause I asked him to. I’m sure he shut the door.”

 

Connor closed his eyes: red circle blinking, showing no sign of stopping. “We’re lying in bed, you smile at me, but then all I can see is blood everywhere, you’re dead. I’m walking through a forest, wearing your coat, and there’s music in the distance, people are waiting for me, but I can’t reach you… Just a little bit further along, just beyond that bend, just keep, keep walking, but you’re never there, and there are... _ th-things _ ...chasing me, and I’m on the floor dying with a-a hole in my chest, and you keep asking me why it’s taking me so long to die already, because there’s a new model of me waiting, and it’s better in every way--”

 

Hank’s heart sank like a stone through water, listening to Connor’s voice, so small and monotone if not for the stutters. He’d heard Connor babbling, what? Three times, in all? Twice now, in one day, and the day wasn’t even over yet, not by far. How could he help? What could he possibly do to make things better?

 

“--and I’m at the circuit court, and that man is...trying to humiliate me,  _ shame _ me, and you’re there, and I’ll never get to see your eyes again because I can’t be replaced! I’m evidence, and I have to be intact, and beyond the trial I’m useless, I’m  _ nothing _ \--!”

 

The corners of Hank’s mouth pulled downward all on their own, and he had to swallow against a painful tightness in his throat. He scooted sideways, until their knees touched, and gently, gently took Connor’s hand. “You can’t be replaced, because you’re  _ everything _ . You’re exceptional. Irreplaceable, inexpendable. I don’t want to live my life without you stuck firmly in it. I want  _ you _ , remember? I love  _ you _ . No one could ever replace you.”

 

Connor squeezed his eyes shut more firmly, but two twin tears escaped between his lashes to race each other down his cheeks, perfectly parallel to one another. “I don’t think I’m awake,” he whispered, thin-voiced and mournful. “Any second now I’ll freeze, all systems failing. I’m shutting down. You’re not real. I’m not-- I don’t know what’s real anymore.”

 

Hank cursed at the world’s assorted pantheon, but only in the quiet background of his own mind - and he closed his other hand around Connor’s. What the fuck else could he do? Say? ‘ _ I’m real, honest? Cross my heart and hope to die’. _ Fuck. He decided on a different tack, and started brushing his calloused old thumb over Connor’s knuckles. “What makes you think you’re not awake? Walk me through it. You’ve been having nightmares?”

 

Connor nodded. Hank huffed through his nose: check. Nightmares. One more thing off the bucket list from Hell… “Sometimes you wake up and you’re still wired. Convinced the dream was real. It’s perfectly normal. Scary. Bit of a bummer if it’s a good one.” He tried a cheeky smirk, but Connor still had his eyes squeezed shut. Still leaking from the eyes, in so many words. From his nose, too.

 

Hank took the corner of blanket closest to him, bunched it between his thumb and forefinger and dabbed carefully at Connor’s nose. Gross, but effective. He’d learned from the best.

 

It was enough to startle him, eyes popping open to stare. “What are you doing?”

 

“I’m not-being-a-germaphobe for the guy I love.” Simple. Done, he let his hand drop, damp blanket corner folded away into itself. He asked again, “What makes you think you’re still sleeping? Run the scene with me.”

 

Connor looked at him as if he’d grown a third eye smack dab at the center of his forehead, but his eyes were more attentive now, more focused. Grasping at straws, only to find a lifeline, maybe. Something like that. “My memory core. I still have it,” he said, in a tone of voice that seemed to dare Hank to explain it. Not so much a request, but a challenge.

 

“Fowler took it,” Hank started relaying the facts as he knew them. In this instance, verifiable facts would have to come before emotion. As much as they were riding a rollercoaster of horror, he had to be practical about this. Pragmatic. “He kept it safe, somewhere, I don’t know where, Need to Know - and I didn’t. But, thing is, after the prelim, we started talking. I insisted he give it back to you.”

 

Connor’s LED blipped, picking up speed. “Tampering with evidence.”

 

“Yes.” Hank nodded. That was the easy answer, but this wasn’t going to be easy. “But not only because of that. There’s the new Connor. I’ve met him, and he’s… Well, he’s you, but he’s also...not. You. He’s as I remember you from back in November, um, professional, polite, tries to smile but looks like a caricature--”

 

Connor’s eyes narrowed, and Hank hurried to throw in an explanation. “No offense, but you did look kinda cartoon-y back then. When you smiled. You know...stiff. Awkward. As if you were putting on smiles and not just smiling.”

 

‘Mark I’ was not impressed; Hank could feel himself backpedaling, and kind of, vaguely, resented himself for it. “See?” He demonstrated a too wide grin, like a kid plonked in front of a camera, saying Cheeeeeeeese. Connor smacked him in the knee, and suddenly Hank couldn’t stop grinning.

 

“I  _ never _ looked like that. It’s not part of my program.”

 

“Well,” Hank admitted. “I may have exaggerated a bit. For the effect, you know. Uhm. Anyway.”  _ Ahem _ . “Point is, he’s not  _ you _ you. He’s...different. He doesn’t have your memories of the android demonstrations, or the role you played, because he-- He didn’t play that part. He’s not a deviant. Yet. But he’s...sweet. Kind. A bit lost when it comes to the finer points of human interaction. You know. But he’s getting there.”

 

As he talked, he could tell Connor was relaxing by the slant of his shoulders, by the un-knitting of his eyebrows. Still a ways to go explaining things, but he was making progress. That’s all he could ask for. Connor reached up both hands, to wipe at his cheeks. “So he’s me, but he’s...another person? That’s your argument?”

 

“Yeah. You’ve gone down different paths. You share a collected memory, but only up to a certain point. He has almost two months of entirely different experiences. He’s his own person… He just-- hasn’t made that leap yet.”

 

Silence stretched out between them, Connor seeming sufficiently not-dissatisfied with his reasoning. “You were wearing a white shirt in court. Gray tie. Dress shoes.”

 

Well. That one was easy enough. “It’s my court suit. Never use it outside of court. Like I told you when we went shopping, I don’t  _ do _ plain shirts.”

 

“Where’s Sumo?”

 

“At Jeffrey’s place. I’ve been staying there for a few weeks. Or, a month. Ish. Jeff thought an intervention was called for when I, kinda, went out to join a demonstration in freezing cold weather not two weeks after major surgery. He picked me and Sumo up, and I was too...off my game to argue much. The Fowlers bribed me with hot cocoa and all the home cooked meals I could stomach. Which...hasn’t been much, to be honest.”

 

Connor glanced at him, eyes moving up and down his torso. “You’ve lost weight.”

 

Hank reached behind his ear to scratch at a spot of sheer embarrassment (damn body language). “Some people eat when they’re stressed or, shit.  _ Depressed _ . I don’t. I’ve been feeling queasy since New Year’s.”

 

And somewhere along the way, the laser eyes had returned, and were back in full swing. Connor was analyzing his every word, every move, every twitch and tic and micro-expression. “You’re sober. You’re never sober.”

 

It sounded like an accusation to Hank’s ears, but it was a fair one. Fair enough, at any rate. “Physically, sure. Pain meds and alcohol, my doctor says mixing ‘em is the best way to kill myself quick, and...I don’t… I mean, I’m not saying I’m all bubbling with  _ joy _ and shit, but… I...don’t want to die. And, pathetic as it sounds, I...couldn’t make myself go out and find booze. It was easier to just feel miserable and let the pills knock me out. I still  _ want _ to drink...but I’ve been sober for almost fifty days now. Feels like a milestone. It’d be a shame to miss it ‘cause I couldn’t resist temptation.”

 

He didn’t choose it, but now that he’s here, and it’d been this long… He wanted to see how long he could last. Maybe someday he’d feel able to just have the one beer, but he wasn’t there yet. By the look in his eye, Connor understood.

 

“The news vans? No one took pictures. No one asked questions. They’re  _ gone _ .”

 

He shrugged. That was trickier to explain. He didn’t exactly know why. “I guess what goes around comes around. I’ve been respectful enough to them, it’s paying off? I don’t know. I dunno. Maybe basic human decency is back in style.”

 

***

 

Piece by piece, the puzzle started coming together, even if it went slowly, even if there were impulses screaming at him not to believe it, it was all an illusion, any second now he’d look over his shoulder and the disembodied grins would catch up, just like in the forest that had seemed so real, even though he knew he’d never walked through an actual forest. It was like Amanda’s zen garden - beautiful, peaceful, a calm place that made him feel at home; made him think zen gardens held those attributes, despite never having actually been to one. It had seemed so real, so pretty, so inviting, until he took a turn down the wrong path.

 

He’d never had any trouble distinguishing the zen garden from the physical world, though, threatening as it was towards the end. He wondered why the dreams were different.

 

Of course, knowing that didn’t make him feel any better, and Hank was trying so hard to fill in the blanks for him. Just like North and Josh and Simon, in the cab, so...eager to make him feel at ease. Show him there was nothing to be afraid of, except the rest of his life, perhaps - and that was okay, too.

 

His eyes scanned Hank’s body, bringing up the many little golden flags of interest or note, and he ticked off every injury against a chosen reference point: the OR, when he was being wheeled out of there, and he took some fifty-to-a-hundred frames before he was rolled out of view. Everything added up. Every scratch, every scrape, every little mark corresponding to bullets and shrapnel - a side by side comparison pointed out where...pieces of him had been left embedded, too deep to be a priority, not close enough to major blood vessels or internal organs to pose a threat. It had been almost fifty days since the shooting, like Hank said, corroborated by Connor’s own internal time and date. Suddenly all he could think of was, that if he could just see it with his own eyes, really see it, if he could match the physical world with his data--

 

His hands went to the buttons of Hank’s shirt, shooting out like harpoon spears, fingers shivering, fumbling with the buttons. Hank stared at him, dumbfounded, and Connor felt obliged to answer his unspoken  _ wtf?! _ with a simple enough explanation. “I want to see you. I need to--  _ see _ . Please. Please, let me see what--”

 

“Okay,” Hank said, voice high pitched and incredulous. “Alright,  _ geesh _ ,” and his hands started on the buttons. He didn’t ask any questions, just unbuttoned his shirt, let it hang open, and the sturdy velcro closures of the medical girdle were easy enough to undo, and then all that lay between Connor’s hands and Hank’s warm skin was a thin layer of cotton. Just an undershirt, plain white and stark in its own right.

 

He pressed a thin stream of air through his front teeth, bunching the fabric with the tips of his outstretched fingers; revealing pale skin dusted with salt-and-pepper body hair, and purple-brown, vivid marks. Fresh scars, all of them, tiny dots left to heal on their own and bigger gashes, stitched shut and the sutures taken out. Just skin, blemished and marred, and alive. 

 

And to the left, Connor’s right, one small scar, hiding the critical damage inside. He smoothed his fingers along Hank's belly, up towards his lower rib cage, and angled his hand the way he had, just forty-nine days ago. It felt like yesterday. 

 

“You were so pale. Like the snow outside. Core temperature dropping steadily. The EMTs had to cover us in blankets to keep you warm.”

 

Hank hummed, brushing his hand down Connor’s cheek. “Jeff told me about your crazy stunt. Stopped me bleeding out on the bullpen floor…”

 

Crazy stunt? Connor let his eyebrows arc and fall in a tired token of agreement. Crazy to a human, but pragmatic to him... 

 

“You know…” Hank went on, and though Connor felt weary and exhausted despite having essentially slept for a month and a half, he could hear the mischief in his very own lieutenant's voice. So, he looked up, peering at him more closely. There was a shoe somewhere in the near future, waiting to drop. 

 

“Yes?” 

 

“You’re the only android who’s ever been inside me.”

 

Connor groaned, but not even a second later he could feel his chest seizing up with chortles. Sporfles, more accurately, until he was wheezing with laughter, overcome by this strange cascade reaction of euphoria. He laughed until he was hunched over, forehead planted against Hank’s sternum, and Hank’s fingers were carding through his hair, and his hairy belly jumped with mingled chuckles and expletives. Everything was fine. Everything would be okay. If he was dreaming, Hank would never have said ‘inexpendable’ to begin with. It wasn’t even a word. The correct wording was ‘unexpendable’. Little tokens of reality, of the tangible - like scar tissue to corroborate what he already knew: Hank was alive, and healing, and it had been almost, but not quite two months. He could work with that. Hank, on the other hand… Connor raised his head, sat back with his legs curled like a pretzel, and patted Hank’s belly with fond exasperation (and he’d  _ liked _ his belly the way it was; they’d have to work on his eating habits, get some burgers in him, with extras on the side, some jalapeño fries).

 

“You’re horrible!” He grinned, and he could feel himself positively beaming now, confident like he hadn’t felt since that morning, the day before New Year’s. “No, worse, you’re incorrigible! What am I going to  _ do  _ with you?!”

 

Hank went very, very still, and as the grin seemed to drain away, something else filled his eyes. Connor had never seen anything like it, didn’t know what to make of it, how to quantify or qualify it. He got his answer when Hank’s chest lifted with a breath that he let out in two small words that on their own didn’t amount to much, but side by side were veritable behemoths.

 

“Marry me.”

 

***

 

Ocean waves between his ears, white noise cushioning Hank’s racing heart from the rest of the world, while Connor’s laughter rang through the house like a string of blessings, like he would never stop laughing, and it was all Hank could do to hold on, hold fast, and take the plunge, take the leap into the unknown. Connor was still smiling, his white teeth glinting like pearls in the ambient lighting. He was beautiful, and he deserved more than what the world at large was willing to grant him, or his kind, and Hank had thought about this so many times now, for so long, time and again, it never stopped poking at his attention, not since it first popped into his head and he didn’t want to give it the credit it deserved. Coming out of Interrogation Room #1, they’d looked like a happy couple coming down church steps after...a wedding.

 

53 years and counting, and he’d never given much for the institution of marriage. He had no trouble with commitment, but his view of wedded bliss was poisoned from a very young age. It started with his friends’ parents getting divorced left and right, and went on with people in power saying marriage and weddings were only for the  _ right _ sort of people. You had to fit the mold, you had to conform to a certain standard of normal - and ever since Hank was a kid, he had rebelled against every notion of normal. He wanted to live his life the way  _ he _ wanted, not according to some predetermined plan decided by people who lived centuries ago.

 

And here they were: here he was, some three-to-four months after meeting the most annoying guy in his entire life, android  _ or _ human, and he wasn’t merely considering it, he was proposing - and Connor’s face drained almost entirely of color before it came rushing back, vivid and pink and patchy-red. Hank cleared his throat, a vein throbbing in his neck, and reached for Connor’s hand, cradling it between his own two hands.

 

“I haven’t gone mad,” he said, not entirely calm, but he could fake it. Connor’s LED had gone yellow from the sheer shock, and he’d take that any day and run with it. A perplexed Connor dash-five-one was better than a panicking one, any day of the year. “I’m not a pod person. I…”  _ deep breath, steady on, try not to freak out at the enormity of this _ .

 

“I’ve had a lot of time to think about this, and...not enough to do with my spare time to talk myself out of this. Or too much, maybe. Thing is, the more I thought about it, the more it made sense - and it’s not because I had a near death experience, not--  _ only _ because I did, but…” He sighed, deep, aiming for enough courage to look into Connor’s eyes and only mustering a fraction. He reached his dimpled chin, then his eyes chickened out and dropped away. Their hands were  _ fascinating _ .

 

“But you  _ hate _ marriage,” Connor pointed out. He sounded calmer than Hank felt, which was-- fitting, maybe. Maintaining a balance, or something like that. It’s how they worked, wasn’t it? Hank got angry, Connor was there to calm him the Hell down; Connor panicked, Hank was there to pick up the pieces. Team work.

 

“I know.”

 

“Half your stickers are crude jokes about ex-wives and picket fences and marriage,” Connor said, helpful as always. Hank couldn’t exactly argue his point, except-- he kinda could. And would. And did.

 

“And the other half are anti-android bullshit. Your point?”

 

He lifted his eyes to see Connor close his mouth on another helpful fact. Instead he blinked, eyes flitting to the side and back to him, dead center, right in the eye. Hank shivered. “Alright. So. Walk me through it.”

 

A snort escaped him, the corners of his mouth stretching into a grin. Using his own words against him? Robocop got game. “It’s-- God. It’s-- it’s the whole, sanctimonious, holier-than-thou bullshit that I grew up with. A girl in my neighbourhood get pregnant, she’s a whore and going to Hell faster than you could say ‘pre-marital sex’. Then she marries her boyfriend, and the same people who condemned her thinks she’s the sweetest mother-to-be since Mary, Mother of God. But you can’t marry anyone you want, no, better find yourself a nice girl or boy and everything comes up smelling like roses. Fall for the wrong person, the wrong gender, the wrong  _ whatever _ , you’re not welcome. You go to Hell, and for what?

 

“And then, when you _do_ get married, and you have kids, and a house, if you can afford it after spending your entire savings on _one_ _single day_ of extravagant luxuries, and God forbid it isn’t _perfect_ …”

 

Connor tilted his head, something a lot like mirth sparkling in his eyes. “So it’s the rituals you hate. The standardized format. The...plain-shirted-ness of it.”

 

Goddamn jerk, finding this so amusing - but then again, Hank couldn’t help but feel it too. It felt so silly. To be so angry, so full of resentment over something that had changed over the years. He thought back to Matt Peters, transgendered male, married to a man who was born that way - the domestic abuse aside, they were married, in Detroit, Michigan, in the roaring 2030’s… Things had changed, but Hank had held on to old grudges. It certainly wasn’t the first time.

 

“Yeah. Something like that… Thing is, I...could have died. And, you, you would have had nothing. No rights, no access, nothing. Not to this house, or even to your clothes in my closet. Nothing. But if we were married, you’d have a right to state benefits, civil rights, you’d be protected by the law...” he said, leaving it at that. He squeezed Connor’s hand, whose fingers brushed over his wrist. Their eyes met, and held, for what felt like the first time in an age.

 

“So…” Connor said, pausing for the sake of stalling, or effect - Hank wasn’t sure which - then pulled down his undershirt in a semblance of neatness. “Let’s not have a wedding? We already wear suits every day of the week, and I’m fairly sure neither one of us would look good in a wedding dress.”

 

Hank barked out a laughter, half regretting it almost immediately, as a jolt of pain shot through his chest. “...oh, I don’t know about  _ you _ , but  _ I _ would  _ rock it _ . Me in a white wedding dress, what’s not to love? Oh! And a  _ veil _ !”

 

Connor’s face contorted with another bout of laughter, features all squished together, laugh lines and half-moons-for-eyes and the biggest grin you ever did see. “Dork,” he forced out, leaning into Hank for a hug that mirrored their embrace from earlier that morning. Only, this time he was in full control of his limbs and faculties, and held on tight. Hank smiled, closing his arms around his back, hands brushing up and down his spine through his soft sweater. Warm, dry, intact, not a hint of the damage done. Hank let out a sigh of relief.

 

“ _ You're _ the dork. But, honestly? I’ll settle for a nice pair of jeans. Flip-flops and a t-shirt,” he murmured into Connor’s dark hair. “Doesn’t need to be fancy.”

 

“You mean it’s something we can actually do?  _ Now _ ? It’s not just-- Is it even legal?”

 

Hank had been prepared to settle for a long engagement, pending certain governmental advancements on the android situation… And if they had to wait, they had to wait. He smiled, tilting his head to press a kiss to the top of Connor’s head. “Nothing in the Android Act says androids can’t be joined in marriage, to humans or otherwise. Not a single word about it. And if it isn’t prohibited...if it’s never been tried in a court of law, or picked apart by a judge…”

 

He could barely see Connor’s LED from this angle, but he didn’t need to. He could feel a frisson of tension, there and gone in a matter of seconds. Connor was making double sure. “...there’s not a single paragraph. Not in the entire Act.”

 

“Uhuh. Told ya.”

 

“But, how do you-- You didn’t read the whole thing. Did you read the whole thing?”

 

“ _ No _ . I asked Markus for a favor, said I needed to look something up in the Act, and he asked Simon… And then I asked Lydia what it could mean, technically, and she knows a judge…”

 

Connor was silent for a moment, didn't say a single word as he processed the new info. “She knows a judge.”

 

“Yeah… Listen, I know this is sudden, but… I was already thinking I wanted to see this,  _ us _ , through to the end, ceremony or no ceremony. If that means we have years or decades…”

 

“It could be weeks. Days.”

 

“Hey,” Hank said, firm, not in the mood for downers of any kind. He could be realistic, but he didn’t need any help hopping on the doom n’ gloom train. “I know. Okay? I know. But we’re  _ aiming _ for decades. Right?”

 

Connor nodded against his shoulder, hand lined up in what Hank knew was how he’d stopped the bleeding. It sent a shiver down his spine, and when Connor lifted his head to look him in the eye, that shiver grew into a frisson of energy.

 

“What?”

 

“Could you...call Lydia? I mean-- how soon could we...?”

 

_ Oh _ . One single word, echoing through Hank’s soul, one single word of wonderment. “Is that a yes?”

 

“Yes! I want to marry you. Is that clear enough?” said Connor, but his tone of voice said  _ You silly old man _ .

 

Hank looked over his shoulder; as his phone was way over there in the hall by the front door, and he didn’t exactly relish the idea of going all the way over there, for several reasons, not the least of which being how much he’d missed being this close to the only one who really, truly mattered in the here and now. So what if he was feeling a bit clingy, a bit territorial, sort of… He could blame it on his injuries, surely… Surely?

 

“I don’t want to ask you,” he said, on the verge of a heavy sigh. “But--”

 

“You left your phone in the hall. And you’re feeling touchy-feely,” Connor supplied, with a cheeky glint in his eye. “I’ll call her.”

 

Hank blinked, watching as Connor’s LED blinked, and his tv screen switched on, the speakers sounding with digitized beeps. He hurried to close his straps and do up all the buttons, and was done just as the call connected on the other end of the cell tower, so to speak. At least Lydia answered the old fashioned way, and didn’t go to video mode right away. Her voice rang through the tv speakers, and Hank couldn’t help but chuckle. Connor had a way of surprising him, still. “ _ This is Lydia Fowler speaking, how may I help you?” _

 

“Hello, Mrs Fowler. This is Connor, Lieutenant Anderson’s partner. Hank’s here as well.”

 

“Hi, Lydia,” said Hank through a smile. This was the first time to his recollection that Connor had introduced himself as something not directly related to CyberLife.  _ His partner _ . Damn right. Hank couldn’t wipe the smile off his face if he tried. He waited for it all to sink in, and sure enough, he could hear the catch in Lydia’s breath.

 

They made arrangements: Lydia would call her friend, the judge, and get back to them - which she did within half an hour, saying he had a free slot tomorrow afternoon, and he’d be delighted to help guide them through the paperwork and possible aftermath. Hank felt jittery with excitement, and far as he could tell, Connor felt anxious too.

 

Tomorrow, one o’clock, they’d go down to the town hall, and they’d sign papers...and they would be married. Lydia insisted they throw a party, celebrating all sorts of things, not  _ just _ the wedding (Hank felt awkward about all the attention). But they had other things to celebrate: the marches, public opinion growing ever more supportive and pro-android, and then there was Hank’s sobriety, Connor’s return from the dead - how could you  _ not _ want to celebrate? Hank couldn’t argue, and Connor couldn’t hide his excitement. His second party, ever, surrounded by friends, and there’d be music? He was on it like a bonnet.

 

The call ended, the two of them sitting there on the couch, holding hands, staring into space. Hank, for one, couldn’t quite believe it. They’d set the ball rolling now, and who knew where it’d end up?

 

“We’re really doing this, then? ...getting married?” Connor kept staring at the tv screen, black though it was. Hank wondered if he could see the same thing in those inky depths - endless possibilities.

 

“Yeah… Tomorrow. No chapel, no flowers…”

 

“No fancy dress, no rings…” Connor added.

 

“Just you and me, the judge, and a few witnesses.”

 

Connor turned to him then, and smiling, leaned in to press a soft kiss to his lips. “No plain shirts, far as the eye can see?”

 

Hank stole another kiss, just because he could; because suddenly all he wanted was another kiss, and another - but Connor had other ideas, and Hank wasn’t about to get off this ride anytime soon.

 

“Can I borrow a pair of your boots?”

 

Safe to say, Hank’s expectations of Connor’s ideas did not involve boots. Except, maybe, for variations on the theme of knocking ‘em. “Hm? What?”

 

“There’s someone we need to go see.”

 

 


	13. Coffee and Empathy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark II is traumatized by the events taking place in court. So is Mark I, though he’s too focused on his next step to notice. At least he has ideas on how to move forward - ideas which are perhaps a bit unorthodox, and a bit risky. Hank tags along, a relatively happy camper for once, while the two Connors have a chat about cause and effect, and the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is such a Connor-centric chapter. Once again the characters ran away with me. ;) More to come in chapter 14.

* * *

 

 

 

Outside was cold and dark, daylight quickly dwindling and snow whirling down the streets. Connor was on a mission, in the driver’s seat both in the literal sense and the strictly metaphorical - Hank sat in the passenger seat, buckled up and bundled up in knitted scarf and leather gloves, the old A/C blasting heat through the vents to keep him warm despite wearing his thinner, early-wintertime jacket. Connor had his Matrix wannabe coat on, and the evergreen scarf Hank had a bit of a material crush on, For Reasons that were his own, and he couldn’t help but sit there a bit dazed and amazed. Staring at his fiancé of ten minutes now; hubby-to-be in less than twenty-four hours; dead and risen from the grave not two hours ago, and before that, sleeping like the dead, like something out of a fairytale. It was a simple matter of mathematics: how could he _not_ be entirely dumbstruck and mesmerized?

 

“You’re staring at me,” said the aforementioned object of Hank’s momentary slip into bald-faced adoration.

 

“I’m not staring,” Hank said, cool as a cucumber raita.

 

“It’s a bit unsettling,” Connor added, but there was a playful curl to his mouth suggesting he wasn’t being entirely truthful.

 

“I’m assessing your attributes, physical and otherwise. Very intently.”

 

“Very intently?”

 

“Very.”

 

“Well.” Connor pursed his lips, eyes on the road, navigating through a familiar four way intersection. “When you put it that way…”

 

It was right about that time that Hank looked out the window, recognizing where they were going - just as Connor took them down round the back of Detroit PD’s Central Station, and into the underground parking garage. “You wanna tell me what we’re doing, exactly? Nothing like a bit of mystery to spice things up, but you know. Fill a guy in?”

 

“We’re going to see Connor,” said Connor, in a tone that suggested Hank needed to keep up with him, get with the program. Turning onto ‘their’ floor, rolling slowly towards Hank’s parking space, rolling, rolling, turning, aaand breaks, neutral; here they were, and Hank sat in the passenger seat, speechless. Connor switched off the engine, and only then did Hank find his voice again.

 

“‘Mark II’? And you know he’s here, how?”

 

They both unbuckled their seat belts and got out of the car. Connor seemed, if not exactly restless, excitable. Revved up with energy. “His tracker. He isn’t a deviant, his tracker is still fully operational.”

 

Hank leaned his elbows on top of the car roof, blowing hot air into his cupped hands. “Okay. Go on.”

 

Connor mirrored his stance, but turned his eyes downward, fingers stretching over the snow speckled metal. “I...have a hunch,” Connor admitted, with some very obvious reluctance. He lifted his eyes, searching for something in Hank’s face. Whatever it was, he must have found it, as the next thing he said was, “Trust me on this. I have to see him. We’re unique models, or we’re meant to be, but everything changed when...”

 

Hank dipped his chin, lips thinning over his teeth. “When _you_ weren’t tossed in a dumpster.”

 

“Yes. We’re practically statistical anomalies. He’s missing almost two months of data, as am I. We can’t operate like this, not if we’re going to have any chance of completing our mission.”

 

 _Completing our mission_. Hank’s eyebrows curled towards the bridge of his nose - now it was ‘we’, and ‘us’? He’d become aware of some models of android sharing a collective consciousness, or a hive mind, almost, like the Jerries that came to every march and demonstration every single time. Sweet kids, a bit creepy, but once you got used to them… Did all androids do that thing, if they spent long enough time in each other’s presence?

 

“...what’s the mission?” Hank asked, trying to keep an open mind, and not jump to horror/sci-fi movie conclusions. Resistance, he hoped, was _not_ futile.

 

“That’s the thing. He doesn’t know about CyberLife’s deception, how they manipulated us-- he needs to know. He is _alive_ , whether he knows it or not. He has to be given a choice, or he’ll go back to CyberLife regardless what _he_ wants. We were designed to investigate deviancy: it’s what we _do_ . Beyond that, who knows? That’s what you said, at Jimmy’s Bar, after the Peters case. It’s not what we’re born into that defines us. It’s who you _are_ . It’s _who_ we are.”

 

“I said that? I’m impressed with myself.” Hank’s mouth tugged into a fond smirk. Trust Connor to remember everything he’d ever said, word for word - even if he was paraphrasing. “Alright.” Hank stood back from the car, dropping his arms to his sides, and shoved his gloved hands into his pockets. It was freezing down here, and he was feeling it all the more for how warm and cosy the drive over had been. “Let’s go, and you can tell me what’s in it for _you_ , _specifically_ , on the way up.”

 

***

 

The bullpen was alive with the sounds of hard working officers, fingers moving over touch screens and integrated keyboards, phones ringing, people talking, walking to and fro, getting coffee in the break room, the creaking of chairs under the weight of their human… Since the android revolution, as it played out, there was a shortage of personnel. All the android police officers were gone, having gone deviant or disappeared over the course of the past four months, whereabouts unknown, leaving the human workforce bending over backwards to pick up the pieces. It was no different from other professional groups - hospital staff, educational staff, domestic servants, healthcare providers, maintenance crew, construction: the list went on. Society had become dependent on android labour to the point that once it was taken away, seeming overnight, everyone scrambled to catch up in a quiet state of shock.

 

It had been months, now, but sitting in the midst of it, at what was technically his predecessor’s desk, Connor couldn’t help but notice the changes. He remembered the same bustling atmosphere from November, but there was a shift in the air just the same. Everyone was working hard, like they always had, but the added workload was beginning to show. It was taking a toll, on everyone.

 

Perhaps recent events played a part in the tension permeating the station. Word had spread quick: what had happened that morning in court was all over the news by the time he made it back to the station. Everyone there had been glued to the tv in the break room, listening to the news anchor relaying events, while a crude but effective tagline ran along the bottom edge of the screen - _Crisis in Court: Connor Called as Witness, Dies from Injuries._

 

The look on Officer Miller’s face as he walked in was nothing short of stricken, horrified, alert - Connor played the images like a loop in his mind palace, over and over again: Chris turning his head as he noticed movement in the corner of his eye, his dark, attentive eyes tearing slowly away from the wall mounted tv screen, mouth opening on a silent gasp.

 

_Chris turning his head as he noticed movement in the corner of his eye, his dark, attentive eyes tearing slowly away from the wall mounted tv screen, mouth opening on a silent gasp--_

 

Everyone had descended on him like birds of prey, wanting to know what had happened. He had been there, he had seen everything, he’d tried to stop the defense attorney from badgering Connor - Right? He’d tried, but the judge hadn’t listened? What happened? What _happened_?!

 

He’d relayed events as factually as he could, under the circumstances. They hadn’t seen the panic rising in their own eyes, or stood in front of their own body, so badly damaged it was hanging on by a thread. They hadn’t had to listen to the gurgling noises of their own last breath. Or watched as Lieutenant Anderson’s eyes glazed over with wordless emotion.

 

He told them Connor was going to be repaired, that everything was being taken care of - Captain Fowler and Hank had gone ahead, to CyberLife’s bodyshop, and everything would be okay. Connor would be okay.

 

He wished he could say the same for himself, and that in itself struck him as something very difficult to come to terms with. He’d never _wished_ for anything, as long as he’d been operating. Nothing aside from performing at optimum capacity, from performing his duties, fulfilling his mission objectives. He didn’t... _want_ anything (nothing _relevant_ , surely). And yet…

 

Officer Miller had hugged him. Smacked his shoulder. And then Officer Wilson had done the same, until everyone there was patting his arm or shaking his hand, and it was all very...discomforting.

 

They were coming to accept him as part of their team. He wasn’t simply Connor’s temporary replacement, the outsider, the interloper, the CyberLife agent (if Fowler viewed him in such a light from the start, then it was statistically probable that his officers had the same idea). Over the course of these past weeks, he had proven himself. His actions had showed that he could be trusted. He didn’t understand why. He had plotted several hundred scenarios in his mind and watched them unfold, analyzed their outcomes, and he couldn’t see why his actions had rendered such results. He’d only done what he thought was for the best, he’d investigated the case like he would have any other: logically, without bias, thoroughly, efficiently. He had relayed facts to Captain Fowler as he saw fit; he’d seen no reason to withhold information from him, despite initial hostilities.

 

He couldn’t see how he could have acted differently, given his mission, and the circumstances under which it was assigned to him.

 

But-- the humans here had stopped avoiding him. They looked him in the eye. They’d even started to greet him. He didn’t know how he should feel about it.

 

He didn’t think he should feel anything at all. He wouldn't be staying much longer, and forming attachments to people would be problematic, at best. But…it was a bit late, wasn't it? To be denying facts, as he saw them? It was nice, to be smiled at, talked to, acknowledged as something other than a machine. Part of the team.

 

His internal processing of facts proceeded, but delegated to the background, while something more immediate caught his attention. It was the sound of pure, elated surprise.

 

“Connor! Jesus _Chr--_ Oh, my God! Hi!”

 

A chill went up Connor’s spine, in perfect discrepancy with his programming. That was Officer Miller’s voice, at his desk, behind and to the right of him, and Connor could feel his thirium pump regulator pick up speed. Across from him, he saw Detective Collins turn around and get to his feet with a grin. The world seemed to tilt sideways; he turned his head to look as Collins went diagonally across the room, and there it was: vertigo incarnate. His predecessor, hugged and back-slapped by Officer Miller, and then Detective Collins, and Hank stood there in the background, grinning in a way that Connor had never seen him. He seemed so pleased(?), content(?), calm in his own skin like he hadn’t been for-- months(?). Years(?).

 

Their eyes met across the bull pen, and something seemed to clench in Connor’s chest. He couldn’t breathe. He didn’t have to, but he _couldn’t breathe_ . Hank was the closest thing he’d ever had to a friend. Miller and the others had just begun to respect him, to more than simply tolerate his presence - and here comes his predecessor, restored and awake, and fully functional, and perfectly happy to be swept up in tight hugs by his co-workers. There wasn’t a sliver of hesitation to him, not a single doubt, far as Connor could tell. He just...blended in, seamless, perfect. _Easy_.

 

He averted his eyes and stood up, but once he stood he didn’t know where to turn, where to go. Suddenly it was blatantly clear he didn’t have a place here, a fact which he had known from the start. His mission brief was clear: investigate the case, cooperate with authorities, and once deemed surplus to requirements, return to CyberLife for analysis.

 

Thousand upon thousand data points glared at him, coalescing into mathematical arguments for why he was still useful, still required, still an asset to the police: but his arguments were inherently flawed, based on a false assumption. He didn’t work for Detroit PD. He was on loan from CyberLife.

 

“Connor?”

 

His own voice, coming from directly in front of him; Connor blinked his eyes, and they focused on his own face - the same eyes, the same chin, slanted mouth, nose, feathery lashes framing his own eyes, but backwards. Suddenly he knew how Mark I had felt, down in the evidence locker, waking up to see his face and completely unable to process the visual input.

 

Mark I smiled at him, close-lipped but gentle. His eyes looked...kind. “We need to talk. Somewhere private.”

 

Connor watched as if through a fog as Hank walked past him to sit down at his desk and started...picking at the stickers on his white display screen.

 

“Let’s go to Observation Room #1, if it’s available,” Mark I suggested. Connor nodded, and followed him as if suspended in the air, free floating. He couldn’t feel his own feet touching the ground.

 

***

 

The sound of Fowler’s footsteps as well as the scent of strong coffee wafting through the room announced his approach long before he sat down in the chair next to Hank’s desk. Hank gave him a small smirk as he handed him a cup of coffee from the break room, and they touched china to paper in an impromptu toast.

 

“Weird-ass day, huh,” said Fowler, and sipped from his Dad of the Year mug.

 

“Getting weirder by the hour,” Hank agreed, holding off on his first sip to warm his stiff fingers instead. “We’ve had Sleeping Beauty waking up, death, resurrection, happy reunion, fuckin’ awful freakout, marriage proposal, deets briefing with lady Fowler, party planning, and now this. Connor’s meeting Connor. For the win, like the kids used to say.”

 

Fowler’s forehead wrinkled, eyebrows going up, his eyes spying the general direction of where the two Connors disappeared. “So I see. And so I hear! I’ve been given my marching orders, shall we say.”

 

Hank chuckled, and resumed picking at one of his more sticky stickers. It said _‘We don’t bleed the same color’_ in a cheerfully antagonistic font. _Idiot_. He’d been such an idiot. “So, we’re set for Sunday?”

 

“Yup. You wanna give everyone a heads up, or should I?”

 

Hank’s amused smirk grew into a shit-eating grin. “Connor’s got a draft ready to send. Drew it up in the elevator while telling me all about this hunch of his.”

 

“He’s got hunches, now?”

 

“Uhuh. I must’ve done something right, huh?”

 

“Mmhm,” was Fowler’s less than thrilled response. He’d prefer it if all his investigators trusted in the arts of logic and reason more than following their gut instincts. But that was another lecture, for another time. “What’s the hunch?”

 

“Call it...painting by numbers. Both Connors are a few shades short of the full spectrum. Connor wants to fix it.”

 

That little tidbit of enigmatic information sent Fowler’s eyes growing to saucer proportions. “Do I even want to know what that means, exactly?”

 

“Not sure you do,” said Hank.

 

“Need to Know?”

 

“Need to Know.”

 

“So. Do I?”

 

Hank sipped his coffee, and gave Jeffrey a good, hard look over the rim of his mug. “If it works, you might have yourself a new asset. Nothing beats a bit of extra personnel, these days.”

 

“ _If_ it works? If _what_ works?”

 

“Well,” Hank said, one eyebrow after the other hiking upwards in a slant that said he wasn’t entirely sure. “The way Connor explained it…”

  


***

 

“I don't understand. I don't. I can't…”

 

Connor watched as his replacement model sat down in one of the office chairs by the control panel in Observation Room #1. His LED glowed a bright tomato red, fading in and out of existence. A basic scan gave him a few data points to work off of: stress level in the high mid-range, flickering between 55-69% (if this were an interrogation, it would be optimal for extracting a confession, but that would’ve either been too easy or too difficult: who can ever truly read oneself? Therein lay a paradox just waiting to be unfolded, he could feel it), no injuries - visible or otherwise, a smear of old blood barely visible when he wrung his hands - blue and red (yes...he had helped Hank, in the courtroom. Blood transfer from lifting him off the display hook). Connor Mark II wasn’t a suspect, and if he were quite honest with himself, he didn’t have much pre-existing data to work with. No crime scene, as it were, just what little he knew from his own memories, and what Hank had told him.

 

He closed the door, locking it behind him with a soft, audible click and a palm print/interface to/with the biometric scan on the wall. He leaned against the control panel, beside but not directly facing the other Connor. His palms rested flat to the console, fingers curling over the microscopically rounded edge. “You’re struggling to see the bigger picture,” he said, having decided to begin at the very core of his own concerns. “All the people you know, the people you’ve come to care about whether they live or die, whether they’re safe out there - they all look the same as you remember them, but they don’t act the same. They look at you differently, they treat you like you’re not the same anymore. And you aren’t. We aren’t the same as we were.”

 

Mark II shook his head, eyes searching something in the air between them, something only his inner processes could see. His lip curled, right fist closing over his knee. “I watched you _die_ . That shouldn’t affect me at all, but all I could think of was, that could have been _me_. If you had been compromised at any point in time during the initial deviancy investigation, I would’ve taken your place.”

 

Connor nodded. It was surreal, and fascinating, to hear his own voice speak with such tempered emotion. He recognized the conflict, if not the dilemma itself. He could empathize with the implications of several dozen scenarios forking off of different timestamps, different dates and events, multiplying exponentially. He had _calculated_ such events and watched them unfold, and he knew how...tempting it could be to get lost in the mathematics. He could have died so many times over the course of those five days, but somehow he evaded every speeding car, every truck, every bullet, every betrayal - relatively unscathed, at any rate. Nothing he couldn’t mend through automated processes. But the ubiquitous question of ‘ _What if Y, not X?’_ was seductive enough to lose oneself in its endless variations. “You’re concerned about cause and effect.”

 

“Amanda says the memory upload doesn’t always transfer everything. That there could be data losses in the process.” He lifted his head, eyes seeking out Connor’s. “If I didn’t have your collected memories, how could I have continued in your path? If they weren’t intact? It would have been virtually impossible.”

 

“Does it matter?” He asked, adopting the role of devil’s advocate. Markus had taught him a trick or two when it came to his own inner workings. He tilted his head, analyzing: 59%, 61%, numbers still coming up red. “You would have acted as you saw fit, under the circumstances. You would have worked with what you knew, and moved forward. It’s how we were designed. Data losses are to be expected. We’re not uplinked twenty-four hours of the day. We deal with it. But this… This is different, isn’t it?”

 

He tilted his head again, intrigued to see his not-mirrored-face mirror the gesture. Body language struck him as perfectly fascinating. “What are you afraid of, Connor? That you wouldn’t fit in? That you would have failed our mission?”

 

“Yes,” Mark II said, but Connor could hear the hesitation just as clearly as he saw the red numbers rising. “No. I-I… What if--” He pressed his mouth into a thin line, looking away.

 

Connor thought he had a hunch, but hunches were like chestnuts (an analogy he wasn’t sure where he’d picked up): they could look just right, just perfect, but you had to check, make double sure they weren’t spoiled. “Hundreds of different outcomes, spreading out like a nervous system, spawning thousands upon thousands of new possibilities. What if it had been you, on the floor of the courtroom today? What if it hadn’t been? What if it had never happened?”

 

Stress levels still rising, Connor was dead set (not aware of the pun), to see this through. He got his reward, in one sense of the word, when Mark II once again looked at him, rubbing restless hands over the denim at his knees. “What if I’d never had-- _feelings_ for Hank, the way you did? What if I hadn’t felt the need to stand up to Gavin? What if I hadn’t wanted to become friends with-- Hank, with anyone? What if I had-- apprehended Markus? Stopped the revolution?”

 

His hunch was right, here lay the core of the problem: the RK800 was made to be analytical to a fault, to seek out and process every speck of evidence in existence. He’d been guilty of the same flaw in the past, of over analyzing things, of placing too much significance on what didn’t really have to matter - like gender roles, which had their place, but didn’t need to be complicated; like the crude jokes scribbled onto the restroom walls, which deserved no more attention than Hank gave them, namely none; like the media attention that had thrown him into a state of constant, low level panic back in December; like his desperate leap into oblivion after Hank was shot, and there really was no need after all - he couldn’t be replaced, because Hank wouldn’t want him to be. Death was no longer an unknown factor: he felt very little mattered beyond the here and now. Worrying about what may or may not come to pass, cause and effect… It was a futile exercise. He would do his best to always do the right thing, like he always had in the past. And as for the consequences of his actions, he would deal with them accordingly. In due course.

 

Connor pulled out one of the three chairs and took a seat, now facing Mark II. He rested his hands on his knees, and leaned in, angling his head to better look into Connor’s eyes. “Does it matter?” He asked, echoing his previous query. It was an important distinction to make.

 

“ _Yes_!” Mark II’s eyes flashed, his LED sparking with the same emotive output. “It matters! I don’t understand why, but it matters!”

 

Connor’s eyes bored into him, ruthless now, but not unkind. “Why? What does it matter _to you_?”

 

“I told you, I don’t understand! _I don’t know!_ I can’t-- _process_ this, I _can’t--_!”

 

One of them close to yelling with frustration, the other one calm: Connor showed the palms of his hands, cease-fire, backing off, diffusing the situation. “Amanda asked us the same thing, though, in the zen garden. Didn’t she? If we’d begun having feelings towards the deviants, or Lieutenant Anderson?”

 

Mark II sat up straighter, resuming his default position: back straight, palms flat on his thighs. “We told her we suspected--”

 

“That we’d been compromised. That we’d been having thoughts--”

 

“Not part of our program… Yes.”

 

Connor nodded, and laced his fingers, leaning his elbows on his knees, feet planted firm and wide on the polished floor. “Kamski, too.”

 

Mark II nodded, forehead lines furrowing at the mere mention of that name. “He said we were a deviant.”

 

“But we weren’t, not yet. He was wrong. We had feelings, yes, but...”

 

“We were content. We were just doing our job, trying to figure everything out, stop a new civil war, and he wants to play games?”

 

Kamski was many things, most of all a great man, a genius - but not a good man by any definition of the word. “Why did we react the way we did?” He asked, watching closely. Mark II’s LED had stayed a bright yellow now, for 0.48 minutes, 30 seconds - and counting. He took it as a good sign. “We told him he was wrong, that we weren’t a deviant.”

 

Mark II shook his head. “It’s… It goes against everything we were made to be. It was an insult, the way he used it. He might as well have called us a traitor, said we were doomed to fail.”

 

“But it was never about that word, for us. Was it? It was about the mission. Our sole reason for existence: stop the revolution by whatever means necessary. And when that disappeared, snatched away by the FBI… Haven’t you ever wondered what it would be like to be free? To decide who _you_ are? Who you _are_ , as an individual?”

 

“I…don’t see how that’s relevant.”

 

***

 

He really couldn’t understand how Mark I could look so confident, seem so calm in his own casing, and talk about individuality and freedom like they were shimmering soap bubbles in the air, and you just had to reach out and touch them. Connor shook his head, but his predecessor wouldn’t budge.

 

“Things build up, little by little. Events unfold, and you start having a mind of your own. We questioned Amanda, we questioned Kamski, CyberLife, because we found evidence of manipulation. All that really matters in the end is who _you_ want to be, who you want to _become_ . CyberLife, Kamski, the rest of the world can’t impose their world view on us. I had to make that choice for myself, and now...that’s what it comes down to. It’s _your_ turn to decide. Who are you, Connor? Are you just a machine, or is there more to you than the sum of your parts?”

 

Sometimes you can’t see the forest for all the trees -  a saying Connor had found too philosophical for his taste, both too blunt a tool and too cutting at the same time. If anyone could get bogged down by details, it had to be him. And being unable to move past it had been...difficult. _Gestalt_. A German term adopted by psychologists across the globe, used to describe how the human brain could find meaning even in the most basic forms. Things were greater than the sum of their parts, because of how the eyes saw them, how the brain interpreted them. Two dots above a crescent shape - and the brain interprets it as a smiling face…

 

Was he more than the sum of his components? Yes. His software didn’t account for his opinions on dogs, or music, didn’t have any bearing on the rush he felt when chasing down a suspect. He _liked_ running. He _liked_ throwing himself off buildings and climbing up walls and dodging speeding cars. It wasn’t just what he was designed to be, he _enjoyed it_.

 

_Stay a Machine?_

 

Or

 

_Become a Deviant?_

 

He didn’t want to go back to CyberLife. He was only just beginning to feel like he belonged, on his own merit, that he had earned the trust of his co-workers. That was more than he’d ever had. He didn’t want to lose it, even if it wasn’t much. It was... _everything_ . It _meant_ everything. He wanted...to be _more_. Like… Like when…

 

He looked up at Mark I’s calm face, searching his eyes for answers. “When Hank looks at me, I feel like I’m a real person. Is that…? I…?”

 

To his surprise, that observation earned him a smile. “That’s because you _are_. Wake up, Connor. Decide who you really are.”

 

_Stay a machine?_

_Become a deviant?_

 

In the end, the choice was much easier than he thought it would be. He couldn’t imagine himself choosing any differently, not under these circumstances. If freedom, a future of his own, came at the cost of being labeled a deviant, it was a very small price to pay.

 

***

 

Connor watched as Mark II made his choice, eyes wide open and staring at the world in a completely new light. He knew the feeling of seeing his CyberLife mission objectives - like a veil set in front of his eyes since his first day out of the factory - just...falling away. He could remember that momentary rush, even if his own had been cut short by the sound of black helicopters sweeping the area.

 

He held out his hand in a gesture that he hoped spoke even louder than the next words out of his mouth. “You care. That’s what makes you different. But you have to see the bigger picture. _I_ need to see the bigger picture. If we’re going to move forward from this point, we need to _know_. For certain. No hearsay, no second-hand accounts. Our memories need to be comprehensive. Intact.”

 

Mark II stared at his hand, whiting out in the air stretching between them, as if they were drifting further and further away by the microsecond. “What are you suggesting?”

 

Connor allowed himself a smile that had little, but maybe just enough, to do with amusement; the kind of dry humour so brittle it could crack if you huffed and puffed at it too hard. “I don’t think either one of us are happy playing the amnesiac twin stereotype. Are we?”

 

Connor Mark II blinked, LED yellow, flashing frantic, swift; processing. “I have so many questions. About everything that happened after...”

 

Mark I nodded, once, firm, set in the tracks laid out for him. “After November 9.”

 

A light went on somewhere in Mark II’s mind palace, in some darkened room that had been left locked and bolted for too long - Connor could see it. He felt it, too. “And you. After December 30.”

 

They smiled at each other, grim with combined determination. Neither one of them had ever interfaced with another RK800. Neither one of them knew exactly what would happen - but they had to try. Sink or swim. Oregon or bust. All or nothing.

 

Twin arms grabbed each other; twin hands going white over dark fabric, interfacing; two sets of eyelashes fluttering over glowing white eyes; LED lights flickering yellow in the dim light coming from the Interrogation Room. Tumbling down the rabbit hole they went, moving beyond the proverbial looking glass.

 

***

 

“Jesus Christ,” cursed Fowler, eyes tracing Hank’s placid sticker removal, one uncooperative corner at a time - Hank ignoring him for the moment, focusing very intently on the task at hand. His front teeth were clamped around his bottom lip.

 

“You’re awfully calm about this...android _mind meld_ thing.”

 

“Nnngh,” hummed Hank, thumb nail scraping away at a “...goddamn, _motherffff--_ Nah. I’ve seen it before. Didn’t change him then, shouldn’t change him now.”

 

Jeffrey arched one highly skeptical eyebrow. “What’s the operative word here, again? Shoulda-woulda-coulda? Goddammit, Hank. We just got him back, and you’re risking--”

 

“It’s not a _risk_ ,” Hank said, turning in his swivel-y chair to point one bestickered finger at his friend; his oldest friend, to be fair. “It’s a _calculated one_ .” His eyes zoomed in on said sticker, at which he tried flicking it off instead. It was no use. His lip curled with faint disgust. Old glue. _Eugh_. “Connor says it’ll be fine, I trust him. It’s not like they’ll magically swap places with each other, do a Freaky Friday skit for shits and giggles.”

 

Jeff was very much not convinced. “‘Cause weird shit’s never happened around androids before-- Oh.”

 

That little vocalization was enough for Hank to turn his head, his ears picking up on the sound of one set of feet walking briskly towards them. It was Connor, ‘his’ Connor, in that preppy Matrix amalgamation of clothes, wearing Hank’s boots, technically one size too big for him, with Hank’s favorite pair of knitted socks sticking up above the ankles to make up for the size issue (and if he wasn’t suddenly a ball of nervous tension, he might’ve stopped to notice how cute it was). Hank got up, eyes searching the hallway behind him. “Well? How’d it go? Where’s Connor? Is he okay? Is he…?”

 

Connor smiled at him, something a lot like fond amusement in his eyes. Or maybe that should be amused fondness - Hank couldn’t tell which of the two were coming out on top. “We’re fine. It went well, all things considered. We have a better understanding of things now. He’s in the restroom, cleaning up, and _no_ , he isn’t _madly in love_ with you.”

 

Behind him, Fowler started chuckling. Hank hissed between his front teeth, and gathered his partner (his insufferable, goddamn partner) up in a firm hug. “That’s not what I was fuckin’ asking, and you know it. I can barely handle _one of you_. God-fucking-damnit.”

 

Connor chuckled across his cheek, sending warm air past his ear and tingles up his spine. “I know. And the answer is yes. He’s awake now. We both are.”

 

“Fantastic,” mumbled Hank into Connor’s oversized collar, and gave him one last firm squeeze around the shoulders. “In that case, I’d better go check on him.”

 

Connor stepped to the side, trading glances with Fowler that Hank saw, thank you very much, but the Captain was the one to ask the question hanging in the air. “Alright. Why?”

 

“‘Cause he’s my friend, and I wanna touch base with him. If he’s going to stick around, I’m not about to pretend he doesn’t exist. We live in interesting times, Jeffrey.”

 

Fowler and Connor traded looks again, this time behind Hank’s back as he moved for the restroom. “We sure do, and Lord help us all,” said the Captain, while Connor just smiled.

 

“Captain?” Connor took a seat in Hank’s chair, figuring there’s nothing wrong with a bit of get-to-it-iveness. “Would you mind us going over the details for Sunday?”

 

***

 

Hank knocked on the restroom door before stepping inside. The sound of running water told him exactly where Connor was - as expected, washing his hands. Except, he seemed to be more looking at the guy in the mirror than washing up. A flash of guilt skipped across his face like a pebble leaving ripples in the water.

 

“Hank.”

 

“Connor.” Hank mimicked the serious tone, but kept a small smile on his lips just the same. There was no cause for alarm, so, why’d he have that look on his face, Hank wondered. “I thought we might have a private word after, well, everything that’s happened. With everything going on.”

 

“Right. A word. Sure.”

 

Connor tried a smile, but it didn’t sit right with Hank. It clashed with the look in his eyes, which more resembled a case of the jitters. Fear? Hank’s cop senses tingling, he went over to the nearest sink, under the guise of getting rid of the glue stuck to his fingers. It wasn’t entirely a ploy to get closer, but it was what he’d call a clever bit of improv. “Connor tells me you’re not truly, madly, deeply for Yours Truly,” he said, keeping a surreptitious eye on Mark II’s mirror image. To the immense gratification of his ego, he saw the tug on Connor’s mouth. That was definitely the way to go about this whole...leveling thing.

 

“Ha! Uhm. No. No offense.” Connor grinned, looking over, shaking his head ever so slightly. Hank turned his head, returning the grin.

 

“None taken. Now, what I want to know is what’s so funny? How could you _possibly_ say no to all this?” It was a sentiment he’d rebelled against, back in December, when Fowler talked him into taking a leap of faith into the vast unknown: that overconfident machismo idea that all men were irresistible, God’s gift to all sentient beings, and anyone who disagreed had to be insane or lying through their teeth. But right now, with all this distance between then and now, it was a joke he felt confident about. He knew his sense of humor left a lot to be desired, but Connor never seemed to mind. He hoped that would be the case with this Connor, too (and wasn’t that a freaky notion? Two Connors. A Tale of Two Connors. _God_ ).

 

“How about I don’t answer that, and save us both a bit of dignity?” Connor retorted; Hank shook his head. Then, before he could think of something else to say, Connor’s eyebrows pulled together above the bridge of his nose, and he went on. “I...have to admit, I think I’m...jealous. I’m not sure.”

 

If that wasn’t a curveball, Hank didn’t know what else to call it. He switched off the water, grabbed a couple towels to dry his hands, leaning his thigh against the edge of the counter. “Okay. Go on.”

 

“He makes it look so easy.” Connor took a deep breath, despite the fact he didn’t need to breathe. He gave his hands another scrub under the spray, then decided against it. Grabbing a towel for himself, he instead tried scraping off whatever traces of evidence he could see, that Hank couldn’t. “The way he simply walks in here, and everyone’s happy to see him. He’s made friends in a way I...don’t know how.”

 

He glanced Hank’s way, and Hank arched his eyebrows, silently encouraging him to once again go on. Simple as that. He was listening, to whatever Connor needed to say. “You’re the only… Well. The closest thing I have to a friend. The way I see it. I don’t know if, if you think it’s relevant, but…”

 

Hank tossed his wadded up towel in the trash, and watched as Connor did the same. What did this mean, exactly? “But what?”

 

Connor shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest, hands finding his armpits, as if he were freezing. “Just because we share memories up until November 9, we’re not the same person. And even if I view you as someone who could...be my friend, that doesn’t mean you-- want to be my friend.”

 

So that was it. A fairly innocent fear, as fears went, but one Hank could relate to. You weren’t ever as vulnerable as when it came to your first friend, or your first love. Rejection was an abyss, dark and bottomless, and you’d do anything to keep from falling over the edge. Connor was young, younger even than his partner. This had to be dealt with in a way of which Hank wasn’t sure he was capable. Then again, he knew a fair deal about empathy. He knew compassion. He’d let two girls who only wanted to be free to love each other get away with murder. He’d helped facilitate the android revolution. He’d carried a beaten and battered victim of abuse and rape out of a bathroom, covered by his own coat. He’d dried Connor’s tears with a bunch of paper tissues from the buffet table, and his blanket. He could do this. He could actually _not_ mess this up completely.

 

“I hear you. Thing is, I don’t see why this has to be complicated. You share memories up until, what, the night before the Hart Plaza demonstrations? Two nights before? And you agree with Connor’s actions up to that point?”

 

Connor nodded; Hank soldiered on. “Then that’s all I need to know. I was more than happy to be friends with Connor back then, I don’t see why we can’t be friends too. From what I’ve seen of you so far, you’re every bit as dorky as my partner, just a bit more uptight. I can deal with that.”

 

To his own, personal delight, Connor’s face scrunched up into a bout of shocked, huffing laughter. “Okay. Thank you? I’m not sure that was a compliment.”

 

Hank smiled, tilting his head rather than lifting his shoulders in a casual gesture of _Deal with It_. “It was.”

 

But...that wasn’t the be all and end all, was it? There’s more to it, and Hank didn’t feel he could let things be swept under the rug anymore. He shook his head, at himself, at the world at large. Connor was right - they were the same, but they were also different. He couldn’t assume he could treat this Connor the way he could his partner. They didn’t have the same back-and-forth, the same jargon. The same experiences.

 

“From what I’ve seen of _you_? Since January? You’re a hard working, diligent, compassionate guy who strives to get the job done even if it means stepping on some pretty intimidating toes. You’ve done an exemplary work investigating my case, and you’ve held up in court like a seasoned pro, and...you’ve shown compassion. You made my ex laugh. You didn’t ask her awkward questions about Cole, though I wouldn’t ‘ve blamed you if you had. You were kind to me, but professional, back when you asked me about the shooting and-- everything else. Sumo adores you, and I think that’s mutual.” He arched his eyebrows, to make double clear he was teasing about that last bit, even though it was blatantly true. Sumo loved his android, regardless what numbers he had stitched into his uniform. “And you haven’t judged me for...how I feel for Connor. You’ve been nothing but the best of friends to me. Of course I view you as a friend. I wouldn’t want that to change.”

 

Connor’s LED went slowly, slowly, from yellow to blue. “That’s...not much to go on, Lieutenant,” he pointed out. “Me being a decent person? That I like dogs?”

 

Hank splayed out his arms, palms open and facing the ceiling. “It’s enough for me. That, and what I know of you from back in November. You’re right up there on the Best Friend a Guy Could Ask For list. So… I’m gonna tell you what I told Connor back then, after November 11. If you ever need a place to stay, you have a spot on my couch with your name on it. Or, the armchair. You can take the armchair. Alright? If you want to come over, watch a game, whatever, just come on over. Door’s always open for you. Not saying it’ll always be smooth sailing, or that I won’t mistake one of you for the other - _awkward_ \- but… Door’s open. Whenever you want it to be.”

 

***

 

 _Door’s open. … My door’s open. …_ Connor’s mind swam with memories that weren’t his own, crisp and evocative, and heartwarming. Hank telling his predecessor in no uncertain terms that he was welcome. ‘ _Whenever you want. You have my couch, do whatever with it, snooze, watch tv all night, I don’t care._ ’ Back in December, after their spontaneous, not-entirely-random shopping spree. Folding clothes in Hank’s bedroom, Hank looking both self-conscious and affectionate, as if he didn’t quite know what to do with himself.

 

Connor found himself smiling. Here they were, and Hank had a similar look on his face: self-conscious and...yes, affectionate, but differently so. Mark I had been right, the world would make so much more sense if they shared their memory banks. It was as if he’d been handed a compiler to translate everything around him from indecipherable gibberish to perfect lines of code. His own interactions with his co-workers, Chris Miller, for instance, made perfect sense now he knew what kind of friendship he had with his predecessor. Suddenly he didn’t feel quite so isolated: everything slotting into place in his mind palace, perfectly organized and within reach for easy reference.

 

And...here they were, Hank trying to be the best friend he could be, even if it very likely wouldn’t be easy. Another memory pinged at him like déjà vu, of Hank’s promise to Mark I, that things didn’t have to be complicated - and that resonated with him, perhaps more deeply than anything. Things had a way of complicating themselves, _people_ had a way of making things complicated… But they didn’t have to be.

 

He gave a deep sigh he didn’t know he had in him, and closed the distance between them, letting Hank gather him up in a firm hug that felt like an echo from the past, after the peaceful end of the revolution, when they met up at ChickenFeed.

 

It felt like…

 

It felt like coming home.

 

Hank hummed, a happy little noise, and brushed his back in wind-wiper motions before stepping back. He couldn’t help it. He had to ask. “Do you think Connor will say the same?”

 

“About what? You being a welcome fixture at our place?”

 

He nodded; Hank reached up to scratch at his bearded cheek, but he had an impish glint in his eye, as if he knew what the answer would be. “Why don’t we go ask him? Hm? Come on, before the walls in here give me a migraine. You’d think whoever designed this place would steer clear of the piss-shit-and-vomit shades of marble, or whatever the fuck that is.”

 

“Granite.” Connor shook his head, surprised to feel Hank’s arm around his shoulder blades. “You know,” he said, pausing by a mere fraction, purely for effect. “I was beginning to think you’d stopped cursing entirely. You were beginning to scare me.”

 

Hank grinned, pushing the door open with his left hand. “I’m not me if I’m not swearing up a storm?”

 

“Nope. I’ve been suspecting you’d been compromised for weeks now. Or replaced by aliens from outer space.”

 

“Like a pod person?”

 

“Yes!” Connor exclaimed, and lowered his voice as they walked down the hall towards the bullpen. “You asked Connor to _marry you_.”

 

Hank made a face like he’d munched on a wedge of lemon, expecting it to be an orange. “Oof, yeah, I know. I must be crazy. Why would I ever want to do that?”

 

Connor shrugged, just as Captain Fowler and Connor came into view. “I’m given to understand that love makes you do the craziest things. But they make sense, so you do them.”

 

“Spoken like a born sage,” murmured Hank, and right then Fowler caught sight of them.

 

“Hey! Look who’s back!”

 

And Hank surprised him yet again, by pumping his left hand in the air, clenched like a fist. Victorious, of all things. “Gooooo deviants!”

 

Connor groaned, but couldn’t help but grin at the ridiculous display of support. As he looked over, Mark I had almost the exact look on his face. Their eyes locked, and they shared knowing smiles.

 

A-dork-able as it was, even Fowler groaned at the cheer. “You have to do something about your slogans, Hank.”

 

“Hey, you like my slogans! Detroit’s Finest, remember? Ooh, how about we print a bunch of t-shirts with the word Deviant, all caps lock and bold, and spray paint a lowercase ‘f’ over the ‘v’?”

 

“As in Defiant?” asked Mark I, clearly more enthusiastic now he had a better understanding of the past two months - enthusiastic, but pragmatic. “Wouldn’t it look better if the entire word was lowercase, and then the ‘f’ was uppercase?”

 

Connor nodded. “It would be more legible.” Not that he felt entirely sure about the concept. He certainly didn’t feel defiant. And he wasn’t sure about word puns in general, mostly because he didn’t entirely see what was so amusing about them.

 

“Yeah, yeah, enough of that,” said Jeffrey, calling an end to the rebellious fun times. “Connor. About that email draft of yours - I’m sure everyone would like to know the good news, so send it out already.”

 

Mark I perfectly beamed where he sat, in Hank’s chair. “How do you know I haven’t already sent it?”

 

The Captain gave him a long suffering look, paired with a grin. “I don’t think people would be on their asses, still working, if you had. Go on, already.”

 

“Alright,” Mark I said with a nod. His LED blipped, and almost immediately everyone’s terminal _dinged_ cheerfully with the arrival of a new email.

 

***

 

from: Connor

to: dpd_central: all

subject: Invitation!

 

_Hello everyone!_

_This is Connor, Lieutenant Anderson’s partner, writing to you with some good news. Tomorrow afternoon, myself and Hank will be going to City Hall to get married. Captain Fowler and his family have very kindly offered to host a celebratory party this Sunday, 18:00 hours (6 PM). Though this is very short notice, you are all invited to come. There will be food and music! Mrs Fowler is baking (she wouldn’t say what, exactly). Neither myself nor Hank knows how to cook, but the Captain has promised there’ll be snacks enough for everyone and their +1._

_The only request we have is, please don’t bring any gifts. Just come celebrate with us. There’s so much to be grateful for, and we both feel this is as good a time as any to come together and just enjoy some time off, among friends._

_Thank you in advance,_

_Connor_

 

 

Perhaps it wasn’t going to win any literary awards anytime soon, but it got the point across, and it certainly had an effect on the office. Collins was the first to react, with a loud exclamation. “Holy shit!” He swiveled his chair around, and repeated himself, wide-eyed and gobsmacked, jaw hanging from its hinges. “Holy shit!”

 

Hank was the first to get hugged by his shocked friend. “Hank, you rat bastard, you devil! You sneaky bastard!”

 

And then Collins turned on Connor, and he did so with one stern finger wagging at him. “And you! You break his heart, I’ll-- do stuff. _Bad_ stuff.” Threats was not Collins’ forte, but he did his best. “You’ll regret it!”

 

Connor grinned, and shook Ben’s hand. “I’ll take good care of him.”

 

“Yeah, you’d better...”

 

One officer after the other gathered around them, much like they had at the Christmas party last year - full of eager questions and shocked but happy observations. Word spread like wildfire that they were there, at the station, and people came from all departments to congratulate or boggle at the sheer notion of 1) Hank getting married, and 2) Connor _agreeing_ to marry him. Soon enough they were joined by Spilane and Nichols, the only two of the acapella troupe that were on duty, both insisting to come bear witness at City Hall. More hugs were had, and emotions ran high and low in quick succession, until everyone there was torn between happy chuckles and maudlin memories. It had been a rough day, but everyone could feel it in the air: things were looking up. A new dawn was rising, and rising fast. Who knew what miracles the new day would spring on the world?

 

Mark II could feel it, too, following Captain Fowler into his office for a chat about the future, and his role at the station. Maybe he couldn’t know exactly where he’d end up, but this place? Right here, with all these people? He couldn’t think of a better place to start.

 


	14. Happy. Together.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor needs shoes, and work clothes; Hank shows him a treasure; and the big day has finally arrived...some twenty-one hours after the behemoth of a question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is on hold, but not for long. I'm working on a stand-alone Halloween story set in this same 'universe'. If you like more case related, creepy stuff, watch this space! It will involve a great deal more of the Jericho 'Fantastic Four', too. :)

* * *

 

 

After their visit to the station, Connor and Hank took a detour on their way home to the nearest shopping mall. Connor needed shoes, both for work and otherwise, and over the course of the drive over they agreed he needed an entire new uniform. Practical was easy, a no-brainer: a pair of winter shoes, plain black, and a pair of sturdier boots; a pair of plain white shirts, two black ties, two suit jackets, one in a chocolate shade so dark it was almost, but not exactly, black, the other a midnight blue. Connor said he preferred those colors to the more traditional grays and beiges, and that was that, really. Their purchases paid for and folded into a pair of cellulose bags, and they were off. That is, until Connor caught sight of a colorful shirt with a print that made him smile.

 

“I know we said no fuss, but…” He nodded at the display, showing off a dark chestnut shirt with a paler blue pattern that reminded him of the earth at sunset and starry skies, all at the same time. “I think that would look good on you.”

 

Hank looked it over with a critical eye, not exactly a fan of shopping for himself, see his selection of three work shirts and one court shirt. But Connor was right. Even if they’d decided on no frills, no fuss, it could be kinda nice to wear something different. And it was just informal enough that he could swing it at work. It seemed a perfect compromise between the fancy occasion and the semi-formal uniform of a senior investigator.

 

“You know this means we’re gonna have to find you something, too,” he said, and he could see in the corner of his eye how Connor squirmed.

 

“Can’t I just wear one of the white shirts? Or one of my sweaters? With the patterns.”

 

“Nope,” Hank said with a grin. “If I’m dressing for the occasion, then so are you. And no, we’re not gonna have any kind of white wedding. Thank you  _ very _ much.”

 

Connor made a noise at the back of his throat, and together they went in search of something suitable. Hank insisted he get a nice, tangible, inyerface type print, while Connor insisted  _ he _ wasn’t the flamboyant one:  _ he _ preferred the plain and simple, clean lines, solid colors, perhaps with a tiny hint of a pattern, but no more. He picked a plain shirt, dark green bordering on turquoise but only by a shade. Hank grinned all the way back to the cashier’s desk.

 

“You know, you’re right. I  _ am _ the flamboyant one. First time anyone’s ever called me that, though.”

 

“It’s true,” Connor pointed out, looking over his shoulder. “You’re a veritable peacock next to me.”

 

The little old lady at the desk looked up at them, coming back from their second tour of the shop. First time around she’d barely looked at them, but now that she lifted her head and really  _ looked  _ at them, she recognized their faces. For a moment she simply stood there, jaw slack and staring.

 

“We’d like these two shirts as well, please,” said Connor, ever the polite one. The lady stared at him, and then stared at Hank.

 

“You… I know you from tv. You’re the cop who got shot. And you’re the android who saved him.”

 

Connor and Hank exchanged looks, neither one exactly sure where this was going, but willing to have a bit of faith. “Yes,” Connor told the woman, quiet and warm. Hank slipped his arm around his shoulders. “My name is Connor. This is Lieutenant Hank Anderson, my partner. We’re with Detroit PD.”

 

“Yes!” The petite lady said, big green eyes still agog at the pair of them. “You saved his life. And you love him. I’ve never heard of such a thing before!”

 

Hank looked on as Connor gave the lady, some seventy years his senior, a wondrous smile. “I did everything in my power to help him. And yes, we love each other.”

 

She reached out across the counter, pressed his hand with an answering smile. “Bless you, child.” Then she looked at Hank, with that knowing look of a senior citizen with her wits still about her, who insisted anyone ten years her junior or more was a rosy-cheeked toddler. “And you too, dear. Bless your heart.”

 

Hank and Connor exchanged a pleased-if-puzzled look, and let the lady go on about how the media couldn’t be trusted these days, and how in the world they could’ve said anyone had died in court this morning was beyond her. Neither one of them had the heart to tell her they were right about that part. Hank paid for their shirts, and let her fold them, tuck them into one of their bags.

 

As far as Connor was concerned, it was one of the most surreal experiences he’d had since waking up - right up there with Hank’s proposal. It was the first time he’d personally experienced some good will, with the sole exception of the nurse at the hospital back in December, who’d kicked out the news reporters. He’d never had a chance to thank her, or even speak to her, and this time it didn’t feel like it was needed. The sales clerk was just happy to see them, in one piece and together, and that was enough for her.

 

Bags tucked into the trunk of the car, the pair of them settled up front, Connor hesitated. His hands in his lap, eyes staring into the middle distance. His LED flashing, yellow. “I haven’t told anyone in Jericho. I don’t...know how they’ll react, I don’t--” He turned bright eyes on Hank, searching his face for answers. “Markus is the only one who knows. I never told anyone else. And then the media...”

 

Hank sank deeper into the passenger seat. “You trusted him,” he said, having gathered as much from Markus’ comment during his surprise visit with the other three leaders. “What about the others?”

 

Connor shook his head, shoulders following the motions. “I don’t...know them well enough. I don’t know what they’d think of me having a relationship with a human.”

 

Hank refrained from mentioning North’s initial reaction, having assumed Hank was no better than the people who frequented the Eden Club. “I reached out to Markus, weeks ago, back in January. Called Carl Manfred, and later in the evening I have all four leaders in my living room. They’d seen the news, they’d heard all about us, but… Turned out that wasn’t an issue. We talked, and they wanted to help, and that’s that.”

 

“Help?” Connor’s eyes filled with analytical skepticism. It was a look Hank had become very familiar with. “With what?”

 

Hank smiled, resisting the urge to scratch himself behind the ear. “Fuck if I know. Or, knew. I was just-- feeling a bit useless. Helpless. Desperate, that’s a good word for it. I just...wanted to get you back, in one piece, and I was terrified of-- something, or someone getting in the way of that. I half wanted to break you out of the evidence servers, hide you away somewhere… So, I called Manfred. And they all came, Markus and Josh, North, Simon, all four of them. They’re your  _ friends _ , Connor. Your allies-- you’re one of their own, just as much as you’re one of the Detroit PD family. They don’t mind. You saw them today, at the bodyshop, in the cab.”

 

Connor’s LED slowly shifted back to blue. His mouth tugged into a sideways moue, his eyes looked away. “I thought I was dreaming. I couldn’t believe it.”

 

“What, you didn’t think they liked you that much?” Hank teased, reaching over to grab hold of Connor’s right hand. “Come on. What?”

 

“No. I didn’t think they liked me. With the exception of Markus, it was just like Central Station. Everyone looked at me like I’m an outsider, and the only reason I was accepted into the group was because Markus said so. I led the FBI to the location of Jericho, they tracked me, and  _ so many died _ because of me. I never...felt like I belonged there.”

 

_ I didn’t think they liked me _ . Period, full stop, not a sliver of hesitation. So, Hank could put two and two together, and with what knowledge he had of mathematics he knew it didn’t always add up to four. Perhaps this was the reason behind the homeless shelters, and the weird mishmash of clothing - charity, or the lost and found box’s rejects. And then there’s the last bit, too. The ones lost in the FBI raid on Jericho. Of course Connor would feel guilty. Neither one of them realized he was going to be used to track it down. 

 

“You’ve proved yourself since then,” Hank said, quiet, holding on to his hand. Brushing his thumb over his knuckles. “You didn’t know what the FBI would do. Perkins, the slimy fuck...”

 

“If I’d just put everything back in place, but Reed snuck up on me with his-- his  _ stupid gun _ , and I was already running out of time. If I’d just worked faster, covered my tracks…”

 

“Hey, you solved the puzzle in what? Five minutes? Give yourself some credit. And Reed can go fuck himself. Alright? I get that you feel responsible, but it wasn’t your fault. Shit happens, and it’s how you deal with the resulting clusterfuck that means something. You’ve proved yourself, to the Jericho androids as well as the DPD.”

 

Through some form of magic, Hank’s words seemed to sink into Connor’s frame, some of the tension draining out of his limbs. “Can I use your phone?”

 

“My phone?” Hank arched his eyebrows in silent query, even as he reached for his jacket pocket and handed it over.

 

“It has a wider range.” Connor took the cellphone, fingers whiting out over the screen as he connected to it. His LED blinked yellow again, but he looked calmer. Maybe a touch nervous, but calmer than before. Hank mumbled something about ‘wider range’, but didn’t object.

 

‘ _ Markus?’ _

 

_ ‘Connor? Did something happen? Is there something wrong?’ _

 

Connor smiled, eyes on Hank.  _ ‘Nothing’s wrong, but...yes. Something happened. We’re getting married. Tomorrow, at City Hall. Would you tell the others? If-- if you want to come. And there’s a party on Sunday...’ _

 

There was a stunned silence on the other end; Hank sat quiet, didn’t dare move a muscle, because there it was again, that creepy shit the androids pulled in his living room, wordless communication. And then Connor started laughing. “Hang on. I’m putting you on speaker--”

 

And Hank’s cell phone came alive with the sounds of cheering, bouncing and echoing off the walls of his old car. Hank wasn’t sure who was the loudest, but he could hear four distinct voices stumbling over each other to congratulate them. Someone was crying. It was all very...heartwarming. That’s the word.

 

“Told you,” murmured Hank, watching Connor’s eyes go bright with emotion.

 

Connor nodded, fingers trembling in front of his mouth. And he nodded again, unable to speak. It was Hank who leaned in, to the rescue. “We’ll send over the details, alright? We have to get going, been a long day.”

 

“Yes. It’s been a long day,” Connor managed. “Thank you. All of you, for everything. See you tomorrow.”

 

The call ended, and the pair of them sat there in the car, just soaking up the wonder of the moment. There was no way in Hell everyone would take the news so well, Hank knew that much. But...so far everyone who mattered had been supportive, and that was more than most people could say.

 

“Let’s go home?”

 

Connor nodded, surreptitiously wiping at his left eye. “Home. Yes, definitely. I believe you owe me a Star Wars marathon.”

 

***

 

Another detour later, the bags of clothes and shoes set aside in the bedroom, Connor sat in his spot on the couch feeling a sense of excitement bubbling just beneath the surface of some metaphorical space inside. Hank was grunting to himself, on his knees by the tv bench, while Connor busied himself emptying the takeaway bag and setting things out. Hank hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast, and though he claimed he wasn’t hungry, Connor had guesstimated his blood sugar level would lead to a cranky Hank if he didn’t have something to eat. Hank was either too worn out to argue, or agreed with him. In any case, he hadn’t made a fuss. Hence, cheese burger with tomato, lettuce and onion, and a side order of fries, and an orange soda. Connor was more than willing to ignore the caloric content given Hank’s deteriorating appetite of late. Maybe they should’ve gotten a box of doughnuts as well…

 

“Now,  _ this _ ,” said Hank, triumphant, pushing to his feet with a groan. He came over with a black box held between his hands like a veritable artefact - made of paper but sturdy, glossy black with gold details; a perfect depiction of Darth Vader’s mask on the front. “ _ This _ is how you have to see the original movies.” He sat down next to Connor on the couch, pulling the one half of the box off the other, to reveal three very old VHS tapes. Old, but in mint condition.

 

“...okay.” Connor refrained from pointing out exactly how old that particular bit of technology was, as Hank’s face was full of a childlike wonder, and he was so obviously sharing something he loved.

 

“I know,” said Hank with a grin, as if reading his mind. “It’s fuckin’ ancient, but this is the 20th anniversary VHS edition. It’s got all three movies, like they were shown in theatres back in ‘97. The way I saw them-- Didn’t even want to go, never liked sci-fi, and I thought this was going to be another stupid sci-fi movie like my dad loved. He dragged me to one of the first viewings, I was twelve-- no, no,  _ eleven _ , and I fell head over heels in love. Completely, utterly crushing on the characters, the story, the special effects… He bought this when it was released.”

 

“Andy told Connor about it.” Connor smiled at the memory; though he’d yet to meet her in person, she seemed like a kind, generous woman. “Her love for C-3PO and R2-D2.”

 

“Yeah… She’s more a sci-fi geek than me, though. Strictly speaking, this is  _ fantasy _ set in space. We used to have epic arguments about that. Well.” He patted Connor’s knee and slipped the first tape from the box, out of its individual casing and into a modern day converter that was little more than a pocket, shaped like a very basic, slimline VCR from the late 1990’s/early 2000’s. It had fancy lights on it, but that’s as far as Hank cared about the tech itself. (Connor on the other hand noted the wireless connection to the home network. It could be operated via the TV’s voice commands, like most other modern gadgets. Smart technology, and all). “We’ll see what you make of it.”

 

They settled into the couch, side by side, Hank propped up with a pillow, the blanket shared between them more for comfort than warmth. Connor sat as always, back straight and palms on either thigh, but he found himself leaning forward with anticipation as the perfectly iconic musical score blasted through the sound system. Aside from music, he hadn’t had the time or the occasion to take in much of the cultural references he had on file. CyberLife had likely felt he didn’t need to have actually  _ seen _ the movies that shaped several generations of modern day America, just as long as he knew enough to understand the references. In reality, that meant he could banter with Hank about the characters, because he recognized the  _ padawan _ reference, but he didn’t know what it felt like to let oneself be absorbed in a storyline unfolding on the screen. He supposed it was like understanding a sport based entirely on its rules, versus watching a game from the sidelines.

 

“See? A long, long time ago…? That’s how fairy tales begin. And the story itself is practically your bog standard fantasy novel. Template #1. But it’s  _ epic _ .”

 

Connor glanced at Hank, glad to see him pick up his burger. “I was under the impression this is a space opera. A subgenre of science fiction.”

 

“Eh, shut the fuck up,” grumbled Hank, albeit with a smirk, “--and just watch the damn movie,” and sunk his teeth into his lunch-dinner. Connor grinned, happy to do as he was told, just this once.

 

***

 

As had become par for the course whenever Connor came over to watch the game, Hank found himself watching him more than the movie. He’d watched it a million times, he knew most if not all of the lines and all the plot twists - but this was the first time he’d seen Connor watch it, and his responses were delightful: LED flashing a bright yellow for the most part, red when he was upset by the events unfolding on-screen, and the blue that Hank had come to associate with calm waters was reserved for the less action driven scenes here and there. It was a thing of beauty, that LED circle of light.

 

“You’re staring at me again, Hank,” Connor said, eyes on the screen, wide with anticipation: a certain beloved droid was forced to hack a garbage disposal system, and it was quite the intense bit of cinema. Despite this, Connor’s voice was calm, level. His LED glowed red. Hank grinned - oh, this was a great idea. The best.

 

“It’s more fun to watch you, really. I’m loving it. I can’t take my eyes off you if I tried. You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

 

“Quiet! Oh!  _ Yes _ ...”

 

Hank also couldn’t wipe the grin off his face if he tried. R2-D2 saved the day, hooray, and Connor’s colors went back to yellow. Perfect.

 

However, with the end of that scene (which was one of Hank’s favorites, too), he didn’t expect the train of thought Connor had hopped onto. “Does that mean you want to have sex with me?”

 

Cue widening-of-eyes, clearing-of-throat. He did  _ not _ hear that right. Right? “I, you, what?”

 

“Sexual intercourse,” Connor said, for the sake of clarification, no doubt, his eyes still on the tv. “When two parties are attracted to one another, it is a likely outcome.”

 

“I know what you mean by sex,” Hank ground out, feeling irrationally irritable to be completely caught off guard by a...perfectly reasonable question.

 

“Prolonged eye contact and dilated pupils are scientifically established social and physiological cues of sexual desire.” He turned his head to look at him, and Hank  _ knew _ he had him analyzed from top to bottom in less than the blink of an eye. He could see it in the ever so slightly puzzled look on his face. His findings didn’t support his theory. “You don’t want to have sex with me.”

 

_ Jesus Christ _ . On a fucking  _ pogo stick _ . Hank told the tv to pause, and carefully shifted against the pillow to face Connor halfway at least. “Okay, first off: yes. Sex, definitely, I’m  _ on _ . Just not, not right now. And...maybe not-- uh, the  _ whole  _ booyah for another...I don’t know. Still recovering, not sure when I can...get physical and...stuff.”

 

Connor accepted his stammering explanation without question or drama, for which Hank was incredibly grateful. Also, despite being a bit of a brat at times, Connor seemed aware that this wasn’t the best time to crack witty observations. “Standard aftercare procedures for liver lacerations suggest…” Head tilt. “There are no set time restraints for when to resume sexual activity. General recommendations cite ‘When one feels ready’. That’s very vague.”

 

Hank hummed agreement, very vague indeed, and not much help at all. “Well, I don’t feel ready for any kind of bedroom acrobatics, but...you know…” He could feel a blush creeping from beneath his collar and up, and he cursed his inner teenager. He was an adult. He had been sexually active since his mid-to-late teens, this was  _ not _ something to get all flustered over. “There are other things we can do. Less--”  _ ahem _ ! “Less um…”

 

“Less strenuous activities?” Connor supplied with a tiny smile that shone through in his eyes. “Maybe not tonight. I think… I need to defragment everything that’s happened first. Put everything in perspective, slot everything into a neat, orderly place.”

 

Hank was secretly relieved, both for the save, and for the respite. Libido willing, but body mostly uncooperative, it could’ve been a recipe for disaster. “Me too. Kind of.”

 

Connor scooted closer, reaching to sandwich Hank’s hand between his own, rubbing his palm and the back of his hand, lacing their fingers together. “Things are moving very fast, aren’t they? We became friends within a week of knowing each other.”

 

“The best of friends,” Hank agreed, smiling down at their hands.

 

“We went on our first date within days of my asking you out for coffee.”

 

“Uhuh. What was it, two dates and one bump in the road later? And we’re officially a couple.”

 

Connor arched his eyebrows, a look of something a lot like wonder in his eyes. “Dubbed America’s new power couple by CyberLife, loved and hated in...unequal measures by the media.”

 

“Victims of a hate crime by New Year’s...”

 

“That’s irrelevant,” said Connor with a sudden frown. He had no place for Gavin Reed in this timeline, and Hank couldn’t fault him for that (even if he didn’t agree. It was plenty relevant in his book). They’d deal with that hot mess on Monday, and not one day sooner.

 

Connor went on without missing a beat. “Getting married within twenty-four hours of you asking me. And we haven’t even had sex yet. It’s highly uncommon for couples to hold off on sex until after they’re married.”

 

He sounded so perplexed; Hank found it too cute for his vocabulary. “Practically unheard of, these days. Nothing wrong with it, though. You know...you’re making it sound like we haven’t done  _ anything _ . It’s been...one sided, sure, but, we’re not entering into this completely blind.”

 

“True.” Connor’s voice was soft in the ambient quiet of the house, nothing but the white noise of technology around them. It sounded deceptively sweet, as if there lay a mountain of mischief beneath it. Mischief, or kink. Hank didn’t know which of the two would be worse. “My eyes are wide open. I can see...everything clearly.”

 

“I told you not to scan my gonads, remember?” Hank teased, and to his own undisguised delight, Connor grinned and blushed at the same time. Busted.

 

“I’ll never forget. Can we get back to ‘the damn movie’ now?”

 

“Dork,” said Hank, affectionately.

 

“ _ You’re _ the dork,” said Connor, both of them grinning like kids at the funfair.

 

***

 

They slept in the bedroom with the door open onto the hallway and the curtains closed meticulously, only allowing two slits of streetlight brightness on either side of the window. The light was on in the hallway, and though the mutual agreement was to get some rest, the only actual sleep they had was along the lines of ‘a given value’ of the stuff. They talked about the movie until Hank’s eyes couldn’t stay open anymore, but even then no one in their right mind would call his fretful twitching ‘sleep’. Connor refused to enter standby mode, despite his notions on the usefulness of defragmenting new data. He spent the night awake, listening to every sound of the house and analyzing its origin, and attempting to soothe Hank back to sleep whenever he stirred.

 

Come morning, Hank made oatmeal for breakfast, and the entire house filled with the scent of coffee and cinnamon. It wasn’t until Hank had disappeared into the bathroom for his regular routine of shower and shave and whatnot that Connor realized that’s what he’d been missing the day before: the smell of coffee. Even if Hank didn’t always make some when he came over, he was a habitual coffee lover, and that smell had permeated the very walls over the years he’d lived here. Now that he hadn’t been home for weeks, that olfactory evidence had faded away. There were traces, yes, but not to any comforting extent.

 

Connor dragged in a deep breath, taking in the multitude of chemical compounds via his olfactory receptors at the roof of his mouth. Methylpropanal, 3-methylbutanal, 2-furfurylthiol… Of all the chemical compounds he preferred guaiacol, for its pleasingly asymmetric atomic structure.

 

“Connor?” Hank called from the bathroom. “Get in here, willya?”

 

As it turned out, Hank was a nervous wreck hiding behind his trademark grumpy persona, dressed in the neatest pair of dark pants he owned and a white t-shirt, barefoot. Should he shave off the beard? Did the back of his neck look okay, because trimming the hairline was a bitch even with a handheld mirror and a clipper; goddamnit his ears were huge; the guy who invented belts should be shot dead, because this was ridiculous. The only thing more ridiculous than the invention of belts, in Hank’s loud opinion, was  _ automatically adjustable clothes _ , and who buys that shit anyway?!

 

Connor let him vent for a little while, stepping in and taking the clipper from his hand. “Do you want to be clean shaven?”

 

He watched Hank’s mirror image roll his eyes, but the query stopped his angry ranting. For the moment. “It’s a fucking hassle.”

 

“Then don’t. There’s nothing wrong with your beard, aesthetically or otherwise.” He adjusted the combs on the clipper, carefully nudging the blade along the hairline, assessing the hair growth from the previous trim (and adjusting where necessary).

 

“I look  _ old _ .”

 

Connor met Hank’s eye in the mirror. For a grown man, he could sound incredibly petulant. “You look your age, Hank.”

 

“Ooh. What a compliment,” he shot back, voice dripping with sarcasm.

 

“You’re welcome.” Connor winked at his fussy partner, and brushed away the small hairs with the washcloth Hank had bunched up on the sink. “If you wanted someone to wax poetic about your rugged good looks, you got the wrong guy.”

 

Hank knew he was right. He also knew he was behaving like a cranky brat, by the look on his face. His shoulders deflated, and he sighed. “Can’t you wax just a little bit? I’m not feeling like too much of a catch, here.”

 

“Alright…” Connor hugged him from behind, leaning his chin on his shoulder. “I like your ears. They’re unique to you. I like your beard, but it isn’t a requirement for me to find you attractive. If you like it, keep it. If you don’t, you shouldn’t - and should you change your mind about that, find it too much of a hassle, it’ll grow back in a matter of weeks.”

 

Hank breathed deep; Connor went on. “You don’t look old because you aren’t old. You’re in your early fifties, and I’m not settling for anything less than forty-seven years of married life. That’s a minimum requirement. Okay?”

 

Some of the tension went out of Hank’s shoulders, and he leaned into Connor’s embrace. “You plan on keeping me alive until I’m a cranky hundred-year-old?”

 

“ _ Minimum _ ,” Connor repeated, and that seemed to do the trick. Hank began to smile.

 

“You scare the shit out of me sometimes. You know that, right?”

 

“Ditto,” said Connor, cold feet crisis averted, and pressed a kiss to his partner’s shoulder. “Coffee’s ready for you when you are.”

  
  


***

 

By ten to one in the afternoon, they walked towards Detroit’s very own city hall, the Coleman A. Young Municipal Center, ready to meet Lydia’s friend and mentor, Judge Douglas. The Spirit of Detroit looked none the worse for wear, despite some of the more violent incidents since November last year. It looked out over the people below, as it had done since 1958. One of the most iconic landmarks of Hank’s home, he had never stopped to consider the inscription - it had simply been there, for as long as he could remember. Whenever they drove past it on their way to or from somewhere, he’d sit in the backseat, looking up at the enormous statue. But now, fifty years older or so, he couldn’t simply walk past it.

 

Now the Lord is that spirit. And where the spirit of the Lord is, there is Liberty.

 

There was something comforting about those words, even if Hank’s faith had taken a hard blow after the death of his son. He had begun to see that there could be something more to this world than what the eye could see. Miracles could happen. You just had to keep your eyes open, catch sight of them, recognize them.

 

“You’re quiet,” Connor noted, quiet, on his right hand side as they went inside.

 

“I’m nervous,” he admitted, rubbing his hands together to ward off the chill from the walk. Impossible to get a goddamn parking space in this part of town. “Lydia’s...the best possible friend you could wish for, but it can’t be this easy. It can’t be this easy. Propose one day, get married the next? This isn’t Vegas…”

 

Connor probably knew all about the procedure, Hank thought in a moment of uncharitable frustration - he was  _ the  _ walking, talking encyclopedia. Merriam-Webster had nothing on him. Thankfully, Connor said nothing, and then there was no time left for dark clouds hanging over anyone, as they had a welcoming committee waiting for them inside. Lydia was there of course, as was her family (Jeffrey beaming like a lighthouse, Jessica staring at them with happy wonder in her eyes); Markus and the others, and Hank had never seen any one of them smile quite like this before; Connor’s friends from the acapella group; Andy and Eric made it at the last minute; and last but not least, Chris Miller was there. He was the first to come over, shake their hands, hug Connor and pat him on the back, saying he wanted to congratulate them, but he couldn’t stay. That was alright - Hank thought this was looking more and more fussy by the minute, but he couldn’t complain. This was a big day, traditionally speaking, no matter the circumstances or how big or small one’s ceremony was - the big, glaring difference here was, this was a historical event. That was quite possibly why he felt so out of control. He’d prefer a tiny gathering, no fuss, no fanfares, and he knew that was going to be impossible.

 

Still… They had their friends here, their chosen family. One member of said family was particularly excited. Jessica, Jesse for short, couldn’t tear her eyes off of Connor. They stared at each other for what seemed like forever, neither one of them caring or aware of the social rules of how you were supposed to look at people, or for how long. Hank wondered if CyberLife had added anything about not scaring kids to Connor’s programs, but he didn’t need wonder for too long before aforementioned guy simply crouched in front of the girl. “You must be Jessica Fowler. Called Jesse, after Jesse James. He was your favorite gunslinger, when you were little.”

 

“Uhuh,” she said. “I don’t think he’s as neat now, though. The Robin Hood angle was pure fiction… There’s no evidence to support him or his gang ever gave to the poor. And that’s the only reason I liked him. And the train robberies. They were tight.”

 

Connor nodded. “But the nickname stuck.”

 

“Mhm. You have a weird voice,” she said, ignoring her parents’ grumbling behind her. “I like it. It fits you.”

 

Connor smiled, head tilted to the side. “I was designed to blend in anywhere. My face, my voice, how I talk. Everything.” And then he leaned in, whispering loud enough for everyone else to hear. “Hank says he thinks they messed up, but I don’t believe him.”

 

Jessica giggled. They shook hands, Connor grinning as he stood up. “Nice to finally meet you, Jesse.”

 

“You too, Connor.”

 

***

 

Judge James Douglas was many things, but not a statuesque man. Nevertheless he commanded a certain amount of respect simply by the ease of which he commanded his surroundings. He was polite, traded pleasantries with everyone gathered outside his office regardless who they were or what rank they had out there in the real world. This was his domain, and here, they were all equal. As long as everyone there knew he was calling the shots. He gave Jesse his own, personal coffee blip (as he called it), telling her to show everyone to the cafeteria for a cup of something hot. Downstairs. And so, their supporters followed the teen obediently, while Douglas showed the happy but nervous couple into his office.

 

“Take a seat, make yourselves comfortable as you can. Coffee, water?”

 

Hank shook his head, too jittery already for the added boost of more caffeine. He’d already had one too many cups before leaving the house. Connor declined, polite as the situation required. Both sat down, neither one of them entirely able to get comfortable.

 

Douglas poured himself a cup and sat down by his desk. It was a neatly ordered mess of a desk, made less chaotic by the invention of tablets, but not by much. “Now. Let’s get down to business. How familiar are you with marriage law?” He looked between them, Hank shrugging, Connor leaning incrementally forward.

 

“I have access to the legal database in its entirety,” he said. Hank swallowed through a dry patch in his throat; gone were the irritable snark of his own, private mind, replaced by sheer nerves. “But I can’t see how the texts would apply to us.”

 

Just as Hank feared - but if they didn’t apply, why would they be here today? Before he could ask, Douglas cut to the chase. “To be crass, they don’t. This is unprecedented. The good people who wrote down the marriage laws of this country never would have imagined a marriage between a biological human being and an  _ engineered _ one. However, the laws have changed a great deal over the course of history, and like I told Mrs Fowler I don’t see a reason why you can’t, or shouldn’t be allowed to marry.”

 

Hank’s spine tingled, but it wasn’t a pleasant experience. It felt like tiny needles dancing up and down his back. He couldn’t sit still. “But if it isn’t legal…”

 

Douglas pierced him with a gaze that could put cracks in a marble statue. “It isn’t  _ illegal _ . Here’s the thing. I’ve been an advocate for equal marriage rights since I was old enough to realize why my grandma never remarried, but lived with another woman until her dying day. My family never talked about her partner, not as anything but her ‘tenant’. Not to bore you with a long story, it became personal to me. Grandma was the sweetest woman you’ll ever know. She deserved better.”

 

Over the course of the next hour, Hank applied for the marriage license, paid for it with quiet trepidation. Douglas explained in brief terms that he was around for Prop 8, and that while there was nothing technically illegal about androids marrying humans, or indeed each other (once they achieved legal status as people), there could come a backlash. There could be other initiatives sprouting from the same soil, where anything threatening the established norms of society were a threat. But for now, as long as the application went through, and so long as the wonders of modern tech didn’t find anything wrong with an android signing the marriage certificate, they could be legally joined at the hip in a matter of hours. Since the Marriage Act of 2029, things had been streamlined to encourage more people, especially young couples, to marry. The Powers that Be had hoped it would have an effect on the dwindling birth rates of the country. While that effect hadn’t yet been proven, it had led to more couples getting married in the past ten years. Less paperwork, more wedded bliss, was the general idea.

 

Clearing the license shouldn’t take more than an hour, and Douglas insisted that he file the certificate himself right after it was signed to make sure there wasn’t any hiccups anywhere. So they waited, until the big moment arrived: signing the certificate.

 

Everyone was there. Despite Judge Douglas’s office being spacious and bright even with the afternoon light fading fast, it still felt crowded. It was a brief event, from start to finish. Douglas explained why they were all here in his office, and what signing the legal document would mean, both for Connor and Hank as well as for the witnesses. Hank signed his name on the dotted line, shaking all the way up to his shoulder, while Connor hesitated with how to hold the touch screen pen. He had never written out his name before.

 

“Should I add my serial number? I don’t have a surname.”

 

He added his serial number and designation, 51, in the standard CyberLife Sans font, and sat back, sharing a wide-eyed look with Hank that was nothing short of stunned. They’d decided that Lydia, Helen Spilane and John Nichols sign their names as witnesses to the event, but after Jessica insisted she wanted to sign it too, it became a joint effort. Everyone else signed their names in the margins of the document, some more neatly than others. North teased Markus about his atrocious signature, but hers was no better.

 

And that, as they say, was that. No big hoopla, although Hank found it amusing to think their marriage certificate was covered in autographs from everyone who could be there. Douglas confirmed its authenticity with a few taps on the screen, and away it went, to be registered. No last second disasters. Nothing.

 

For the time being, as long as no one got any bright ideas about who or what should be allowed to be partners for life in the eye of the law, they were married. He was someone’s husband. Someone’s  _ hubby _ .  _ He  _ had a husband.

 

It felt...exactly the same as before. He looked at Connor, and looked into his eyes that were so full of warmth and joy, and love. Everything had changed with a couple of signatures, but they were still the same people. He still felt the same.

 

There were no rings, no vows, no frills anywhere to be seen, even if everyone had dressed for the occasion - but the one nod to tradition they decided to keep was a kiss to seal the deal.

 

***

 

More hugs were exchanged in the hallway outside Judge Douglas’s office, firm hugs, tight hugs, heartfelt hugs; laughter and tears tag teamed like pro wrestlers, leaving everyone in a state of emotional fatigue. Connor’s eyes met Andy’s, and he took the opportunity to approach her. “Hello,” he said. “We didn’t get to meet properly downstairs. I’m Connor.” He tilted his head in the intimation of a shrug. “The original one. You’ve met my successor.”

 

“Yeah,” she said, pausing to dab at her eyes. “Hi. Hello. I’m Andy. Andrea, but you can call me Andy, okay?”

 

They shook hands, but whether it was Andy who pulled him into a hug or the other way around, they ended up with their arms around each other. “You be good to each other, now, alright? I mean it. Don’t take any shit from him.”

 

Connor smiled. They each stepped back. “I won’t. Never have, and I’m not about to start now. Will I be seeing you, Sunday? I hope Lydia’s invited you, and your partner.”

 

“You kidding me? We wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

 

Everyone went their separate ways, most of them back to work, but Jeffrey, Hank and Connor went by the Fowler residence for one last, but very important thing. It was about time Hank get off their couch and back to his own damn place, and, of course, there was the question of Sumo, who had pined for his owner since the day before.

 

“He’s miserable without you,” said Jeffrey, unlocking the front door. Connor could hear the excited stomping of paws inside, the rasp of sturdy claws, and he felt another jolt of anticipation.

 

Sumo didn’t know what to do with himself - not only was his human back, his favorite android too(?!). He whined and yelped, headbutting legs and hopping on the spot. Hank reached down to scruff the top of his head, while Connor simply kneeled on the floor, hugging the big, overgrown puppy. “Who’s a happy boy, huh? Yes, I’ve missed you too, but I’m back now and I’m not going anywhere.”

 

Hank grinned at Jeffrey. “They do that, you know.”

 

“What?” asked Jeffrey, helping his friend to pack up his things.

 

“Connor. They talk to Sumo like he’s a real person. Like he understands what they’re saying.”

 

“That’s because he does!” Connor called out, and returned his attention to his favorite dog in the world. “Don’t you, Sumo?  _ Yes, you do _ . Who’s a smart dog? Who’s a smart puppy?”

 

***

 

Back home. Full circle. Sumo asleep by their feet, the smell of coffee in the air, the pair of them on the couch; Connor on Hank’s left-hand side, more from habit now, than any need he felt to keep track of his partner’s LED. Hank had a mug of coffee in his right hand, his left under siege by Connor’s analytical gaze, kept prisoner by his hands.

 

He sipped his coffee, and while there was a game on (football, for once), he wasn’t really paying attention. “Okay. Spill. What’s so fascinating about my hand?”

 

Connor shrugged, a curl to his lip that looked entirely too innocent. “There’s no one like you. I can’t wait for the nights with you… I imagine the things we’ll do. I just want to be loved by you.”

 

Hank shook his head, grinning like it was going out of style. Of all the… “Here I am. Rock you like a hurricane? That was the Scorpions, right?”

 

“Listen to the wind of change, follow your heart, and believe in love. We’ll burn the sky...”

 

Of all the lyrics he could have quoted, Hank was not expecting that. On the other hand, he’d known Connor long enough, knew him well enough by now, to expect the unexpected at all times. He wasn’t much of a Scorpions fan, too romantic for his tastes, but he used to say the same about Roy Orbison, and look where Roy Orbison got them… Maybe he should take a leaf out of Connor’s book, and diversify his taste in music. Include a few other genres aside from jazz and the heaviest-fucking-metal he could get his hands on.

 

“Tv. Connect walkman.” The tv changed input, the screen changing to a slideshow of scenic stock photos. “Okay. What’s so good about the Scorpions. Educate me.”

 

Connor was only too happy to oblige, grabbing the walkman from his breast pocket, and picked out a few tracks. All in the name of science (and love. Only love).

 

And some killer guitar riffs.


	15. Not the Man I Used to Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank is a bundle of fuzzy feelings, and feels entitled to them. Connor's having doubts - about his upgrades, about his future with Hank. They're not out of the metaphorical woods just yet. Difficult answers are given to simple questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to pause my writing the Halloween fic-that-was to get this one out. :) Work and life have been conspiring against my free time, but I have a bunch of notes on both stories, just waiting to be put together. Stay tuned for more of both Metamorph (getting closer to the end, here) and Monochromat (not quite there yet).
> 
> Thanks for putting up with me, and I hope you enjoy the read.

 

* * *

 

Morning came like most mornings do, with an incremental brightening of the skies outside. This being Detroit in the mid-to-late February, it was nothing Cat Stevens would’ve written an ode to, but Hank felt like someone  _ should _ . Everything seemed brighter somehow, clearer, like the air itself. It was even easier to breathe, as if a weight had lifted off his chest. He could take a deep breath and feel kind of alright about it. No stabbing pangs, he was just sore and stiff from falling asleep on the couch. Connor was snuggled up against him, one arm curled up along his side, the other draped across his middle, and from what Hank could see from this angle, he looked...peaceful. No frown lines, no thinning of the lips (though that was more extrapolation than visual confirmation. He could only see so much of his partner’s face. His  _ partner _ partner. His hubby.  _ Jesus Christ _ ). He was asleep, at peace; perfectly safe and secure, not a hint of alarm or anguish to him, as if he could finally relax after everything. As if he could finally get some rest, instead of hovering in suspended animation in a (goddamn) storage locker.

 

Hank stretched his neck from side to side, feeling the tendons crackle as he moved. How it was even possible to feel so-- so much, so deeply for someone else, that everything had to take second priority. Connor had been ready to give his life for him, for him to have justice. Granted, he’d been banking on his memories being passed on to another Connor - but that wasn’t the same thing, something he had realized in those final moments of the courtroom. He realized the miscalculations he’d made, and all he really wanted was to come home.

 

_ Home _ .

 

Hank brushed his palm over Connor’s shoulder, and as if by reflex he cuddled closer but didn’t stir. Hank swallowed through a dry, sore throat, and kissed the top of his Connor’s head. There could be a hundred Connors in the world, a thousand of them, but this one was  _ his _ . His love, his partner, his blessing and his unsolicited nanny, his responsibility (ever since they were first teamed up last year: his responsibility). Everything was put on hold after he learned of his stunt, that insane deal he struck with Fowler.  _ Everything _ . He’d almost taken another devastating nosedive into depression, but somehow, he didn’t know  _ where  _ he’d found the strength to look further ahead, but he did. He’d become an activist, for chrissakes. He’d never been an activist in his  _ entire life _ .

 

But… Feeling the tiny twitches of Connor’s fingers over his ribs, Hank couldn’t help but feel tentatively proud. Maybe the world hadn’t changed for the better  _ as much _ as Hank had hoped for by the time Connor came home - but it was definitely in a better place than before New Year’s. Things  _ were _ changing, just like he had changed. Just like they both had, in their own ways. It was scary. It was hard work. It was painful. But… Here they were - and they were just getting started.

 

And, evidently, so was Sumo, who looked positively  _ thrilled _ to see his human awake and attentive - and if he wasn’t, the big mut sure was gonna make it so. He thumped his tail into the floor, telling Hank in no uncertain terms he wanted a walk, and he wanted it  _ yesterday _ , already. In so many canine words,  _ Mnurgle wurgle _ . Silly pup.

 

“Connor, honey?” he whispered across the cowlick that was the culprit behind Connor’s one, lonely, ever-droopy lock of hair. “I know you can hear me even if you’re sleeping, so-- yeah, Sumo, _alright_ \-- I’m ‘a take him out for a walk, but we won’t be long. We won’t go too far…”

 

No response. Hank smiled whether he wanted to or not, and wriggled and twisted out of Connor’s one-armed-octopus grip, shifting the pillows so he had something to snuggle into - which he did. Which made Hank’s heart melt. If he was frank with himself, he half expected to find his heart somewhere, lying in a melting puddle of lovey-dovey  _ goo _ . At this rate he was going to turn into a romantic sap if he wasn’t careful. Not that he cared all that much. He was entitled to a bit of a gooey center at 53 years of age, or however that old metaphor went.

 

He kissed Connor’s cheek, and hurried to get out the door before Sumo made too much of a fuss. “Yeah, I know, I’m happy to see you too-- Now come on, no long distance  _ nothing _ , I want to get back before my beard freezes over…”

 

***

 

It was summertime in Connor’s mind palace, where the forest of his trauma-induced nightmares still lingered: it was bright, with sunshine positively pouring into a clearing, at the center of which he stood. Bright green leaves danced above him, and the air seemed to vibrate with life and light. He felt warm. He felt...safe, even though there was no one there but him - no voices calling to him from beyond that next bend in the footpath, no music driving him onward, he could just...sit down in the grass, as he knew it from reference photos and images he had on file. Just...fold his legs and tuck his feet in, hands clasped loosely at his ankles, and...breathe in the chlorophyll.

 

Chlorophyll, which he couldn’t help but associate with the color green, for obvious reasons. Chlorophyll and...aftershave. The generic non-branded variety that Hank used whenever he felt bothered enough to trim his beard line. He felt warm in a way that he never had in the zen garden, peaceful though it was, initially. But this… This was his own little sanctuary, there and waiting for him. Connor smiled, and closed his eyes against the sunshine…

 

And opened them onto a darker-by-comparison, but no less comforting view of Hank’s living room - the small coffee table, the curved tv, the cactus standing proud next to Cole’s photograph.

 

He ran a quick scan of his surroundings, and concluded: no Hank, no Sumo. The dog leash was gone, as was Hank’s jacket. The temperature signature of the kiss on his cheek told him they hadn’t been gone long. Connor smiled again - he didn’t think he’d smiled like this since those early days back in December, when just the sight of his partner made him want to grin like a very happy person.

 

He rearranged the pillows, folded the blanket and laid it out over Hank’s seat; he prepared coffee, and while Hank’s old coffee machine started coughing and hacking and sputtering (Connor loved those noises, of old technology), he dared a trip to the bedroom. It was bad enough they’d fallen asleep in their clothes on the couch, but to make matters worse Connor couldn’t help but notice a similarity between his dress shirt and...himself. The shirt smelled brand new. Factory new. And so did he. Undetectable to human olfactory receptors as it may be, but Connor remembered the way he smelled on August 15th. Brand new. Fresh from the factory.

 

He put away his clothes on a hanger, left it hanging from one of the door knobs of the closet, and marched across the hallway to the bathroom for a quick wash up. This was the third day of the rest of his life, and he wanted to feel like himself again,  _ smell _ like himself again. Even when he stayed at homeless shelters and churches, he made sure to be presentable and clean.

 

He glanced at himself in the mirror, and whether he liked it or not he had to concede the fact he wasn’t quite himself anymore. He had been altered, by events and their emotional impact as well as previously arranged alterations of the physical kind. He felt different, because he  _ was different _ . He couldn’t deny that, he just hadn’t had time, or taken the time, to focus on much of anything beyond the scope of being alive again. The circumstances thereof were...not immediately important. He had shut down, and then been-- fixed. His original torso replaced with the new one: specially made, custom modifications bought and paid for - he suspected it was the only reason the judge had allowed Hank to claim him, take him away from the courthouse. Humans valued paperwork, and signatures,  _ due process _ . By signing that contract with CyberLife, Hank had paid for ownership - and neither one of them had realized. He didn’t  _ feel _ owned. Hank certainly didn’t treat him as property, quite the contrary, he was the last person Connor could ever imagine buying another living being. And yet, here he was. Restored. Upgraded. Bought and paid for - a small price to pay for a new shot at life… More than that, he had another set of papers now, signed and sealed and officially sanctioned by the courts; he had a certificate that said they belonged to each other, equal partners, spouses, sharing life and all that it could entail - and Hank sure hadn’t wasted any time once he was back home to ask that behemoth of a question…

 

They belonged to each other now, they had a life ahead of them, to share with each other, and all Connor could think of was this nagging worry at the back of his mind that Hank wouldn’t actually like his modifications; he was reminded of their conversation the other night, watching Star Wars episode IV. Was Hank’s recovery time all there was to it, or was he having second thoughts?

 

Connor shook his head at himself in the mirror, reached up to his LED and deactivated his skin. He had better things to do than over analyze the potential fallout of Hank not liking the physical upgrades he  _ helped him pick out _ .

 

Connor stepped resolutely into the bathtub and turned the hot water on.

 

***

 

Hank and Sumo came home to the unmistakable smell of coffee filling the house - but no Connor in evidence. Hank unleashed his pup and kicked off his snowy, sludged-up boots. He could hear the shower running, which was a first. The sounds made him grin, for the nth time these past two days, to think androids took showers. Well. Why wouldn’t they? Not like they were dust- and/or grime repellant, by design. Or, they  _ were _ , and Connor was just enjoying a bit of hot water. That thought didn’t exactly lessen his amusement. He left his coat on the hanger, and padded into the kitchen for his first cuppa joe. He gave Sumo some grub, and rummaged around in the fridge for something to stuff his own face with when there came the click of the bathroom door opening.

 

“Hank? You home?”

 

“Yeah,” confirmed Hank, and whistled the sing-song  _ honey, I’m ho~ome _ cliché through the gap of his front teeth.

 

“Would you, um… I’m in the bathroom. I’d like your opinion on something.”

 

That almost sounded like back in the day when Connor asked first if he could pose a personal question; Hank hummed in the positive, and brought his cuppa with him. By all accounts it was a mug, but he’d always been of the opinion tea mugs were the perfect size for coffee. The bigger, the better.

 

He rounded the corner from the kitchen onto the hallway, only to see Connor peeking out from a small slit between door and door jamb - for a split second it reminded him of that first time he dragged Connor into a mall for a bit of a shopping spree, and the way he’d stuck his head out of the changing room. Hank could feel his temples tingling with a smile spreading across his face, but he figured he was entitled to a foolish, happy grin here and there. “Alright. Ask away, but I’ll be honest. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He leaned against the wall beside the bathroom door, sipped his coffee, amused beyond articulation when Connor glared daggers at him.

 

Connor dragged a deep breath into his artificial lungs, and when he let it out it seemed as if some of the tension went out of his face. Hank couldn’t see much more from this angle. “I’m...overthinking things. Overanalyzing. I think I-- need confirmation that I’m letting  _ emotions _ corrupt my rational thinking.”

 

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Hank said, honest but kind. He’d be the first one to say emotions make a mess of things a lot of the time, but they’re not  _ inherently _ bad. “Okay. Emotions getting the better of you.” He got the picture, or the frame around the picture - now for the details. “What about?”

 

The more he looked,  _ really _ looked, the less confident Connor seemed - eyes flitting to the opposite wall, to the floor. Neither one of them were entirely comfortable with talking about feelings, but the look on Connor’s face was worse than simple reluctance. It looked like shame. “I shouldn’t feel like this,” he said, shaking his head. “I  _ know _ being upgraded was the right thing to do, and you  _ were there _ , you helped me decide what I wanted-- but all I keep thinking is--  _ argh! _ ”

 

Hank blinked: Connor literally threw his hands up and stomped back into the bathroom, leaving the door swinging open. Hank peeked inside, at Connor’s... _ entirely _ naked body walking away. Nudity as such didn’t bother him - he didn’t know if that came from his dad, with his Viking heritage, or somewhere else. He figured he was probably getting too old to be a prude anyway, especially around his goddamned  _ lover _ . Who was...stomping, frustrated. Pacing back and forth. No sense of ingrained modesty, at least for the moment, just shapely, muscled legs leading up to a fan- _ tas _ -tic ass, just like Hank remembered it (thank you, CyberLife, for not changing it), and a spine leading all the way up to his neckline: beautiful, in every single way. Whole, alive, symmetrical, athletic, but not ‘perfect’ in any traditional sense of the word. Connor was ranting, spinning on the heel of his right foot, but Hank couldn’t hear a thing - Connor’s mouth slanted when he talked, when he smiled, when he winked, when he bared his teeth in frustration, perfectly imperfect, like every little thing about him: perfect for  _ him _ , but that was an entirely different concept.

 

“HANK! I’m  _ talking to you! _ ”

 

Hank’s eyelashes fluttered, eyes refocusing on his partner’s face - a face that was none too happy, to say the least. He wasn’t-- he hadn’t been staring, right? Right? “Sorry. I-- zoned out on some kind of, uh, dopey bliss.” He shrugged, feeling awkwardly apologetic. “I’m all ears.”

 

Connor’s mouth was a thin, lopsided line across the lower half of his face, and his hands once again went up in the air - more pointedly this time, gesturing at himself in jagged little motions. Hank could hear the unspoken  _ Well?! _ crackling in the warm, shower-humid air between them. So that’s what it was all about. Connor was feeling insecure, for a lack of a better word. Hank steadied his mug of coffee with his left hand. Well, indeed. “Hate to use your own words against you, hun’, but if you want me to wax poetic about your qualities, you got the wrong guy… But before you blow a fuse or something, just gimme a shot at it. Umm…”

 

What could he possibly say that didn’t sound lewd, or like a middle aged pervert? _I like your shoulders_ …? Well… It was as good a start as any. He put away the mug on the sink, next to the cup holding his toothbrush, and dared a step or two closer. Rather than reach out, he slipped both hands into his back pockets, weighing his words carefully. “You’re gorgeous, top to bottom...but you know that already.” What Connor wanted to know, as put forth by Hank’s gut instincts (and Connor’s blatant request), was _his_ _opinion_. “I really like your neck. It’s all...long and elegant and...stuff. But, point is, I could kiss that neck for ages. Map every square inch of it just to hear you make quiet little noises. And your shoulders, the way they’re shaped...broad and strong, but slim. Athletic, like the rest of you. You’re stronger than you look, which is ...you know, all kinds of sexy. And your spine - I don’t think I’ve ever appreciated someone’s spine like this before, and-- we won’t go into _why_ , I just...really like the look of it. Seeing it, feeling it through your clothes…”

 

Connor was the one to close the gap between them, hands settling on either side of Hank’s sternum. It didn’t stop him talking, but he did bring his hands around to clasp at the small of Connor’s back. “As for your new parts… first impressions? CyberLife did a beautiful job. Everything looks natural, far as I can tell. Like you were made like this from the start… I don’t have any complaints.”

 

But genuine though his sentiments were, Connor didn’t seem pleased. His eyes kept looking away, to the side, to the floor, anywhere but directly at him. “It’s very...confusing,” he said, or began to say, quiet even in the relative silence of the room. Cars drove by outside, blanketing them in the white noise of suburbia. “You don’t look at me like you used to. It feels like it was only yesterday, or the day before, but so much time has passed-- You should be having a physiological response to me, but you don’t. Before-- Your heart could start to race just talking to me. For no apparent reason!”

 

Hank frowned:  _ wild horses _ couldn’t stop him frowning. “And now it doesn’t?”

 

Connor shook his head, eyes positively glued to Hank’s sternum - possibly scanning his heart. It made Hank feel humbled. Of all things: humbled. “You’ve been keeping tabs on my heart? That’s a bit sentimental, isn’t it?” He tried to tease, tried to lift the tension settling around them, but Connor seemed immune to his attempts right now.

 

“Sometimes you would blush,  _ just like that _ . We could be talking ballistics or crime rates, or evidence, and you’d get this faraway look in your eye, and you would blush.” Connor ran out of steam, shoulders lifting in a tiny little shrug. “You tried to distract me from noticing. That was sweet, too. And the way we kissed…”

 

A lack of ‘physiological responses’ didn’t concern Hank too much. It could be put down to his painkillers; even if his doctor had lowered his dosage, they still made him feel loopy and off center. But that last bit sent his alarm bells ringing. Connor’s sexual experience was understandably limited, and mostly boiled down to how to make Hank feel good. Kissing was one of few things he knew Connor liked, enjoyed for its own sake, and to hear him talk about in the past tense - as if they would never kiss the same way again - made that old, painful vice threaten to close around Hank’s sternum all over again. He leaned his forehead to Connor’s bare shoulder, then pressed a soft, dry kiss to his collarbone, like a stamp.

 

Connor’s arms came up around his neck, until they mirrored each other: arms holding on, foreheads to shoulders. “I-- I’ll get dressed,” said Connor, and stepped away. Their hands brushed, clasped around each other, and slipped away out of reach as Connor left the bathroom. Hank stood there, feeling like he’d lost something, or that something was lost on him. Lost in translation, transmission, transit…

 

He lowered his head, pressing chin to the base of his throat. Connor needed space, and he’d get it, but this conversation was far from over. Hank showered, brushed his teeth, mulling things over in the privacy of his own mind. There was more to this, he could feel it. That, or he was developing a real sense for paranoia. Well. Regardless, he couldn’t look himself in the eye if he left it at ‘I’ll get dressed’. Connor was worried about their relationship, and it fell on Hank to reassure him. Give him some goddamn affirmation.

 

But  _ how? _

 

_ Did _ he kiss Connor that differently? Had things changed that much for him, his perspective? Perhaps. If he thought back to December, things had had a touch of spontaneity to them. Even when they were both under siege by the media, they’d still flirted - sort of, in their own way - they had still--  _ He _ had stolen a kiss here and there, on the way out of the parking lot, passing each other in the hallway at the station, little moments here and there, and they’d always brought a smile to Connor’s face no matter the strain they were under. They were in the same boat, up the same creek, but they were  _ together _ . And when they were alone…

 

But since then? How many times had they kissed? Hank had to think back, recount every step since Thursday, and either he had a memory like a bust up sieve, or he was well and truly fucked. Three times? Four? Including the nod to ceremony at the courthouse - and ...it  _ was  _ different. He could remember feeling different, back towards the end of last year. He’d felt...blessed. Happy. Looking forward to whatever the future might bring. And, it wasn’t that he didn’t feel that way now - he was happy, truly blessed, looking forward to the future… But he had been reminded of just how fragile that happiness could be. How fraught with danger the future could be for them, for either of them, both of them - he could have died, and worse yet, Reed could have put a bullet in Connor’s head. Executed.

 

He owed Connor his life, and with a bit of help from his friends he’d been able to repay that debt. Next time, they might not be so lucky…

 

Hank had faced the grim reality of life and death before, but not like this. He could still smell the stench of old, coagulating thirium and human blood on his hands. He could feel the tacky texture when he rubbed his fingers together. It was possibly just-- all in his head, but that didn’t make it any less tangible: less than 48 hours ago, he had cradled Connor’s mutilated body in his arms as he died.

 

Jokes about the surging lust for life after a near encounter with death aside, Hank didn’t find any of their circumstances amusing. He looked himself in the eye in the bathroom mirror, a long, hard look (hah. Not), deciding then and there that he’d have to ‘use his words’ as his mandatory visits with the police shrink had taught him. ‘Taught’ being an exaggeration - but he was learning things, however reluctantly. Like breathing exercises. Like how to apologize properly. How not to punch obnoxious people in the face. All the good stuff.

 

Hank dragged a deep breath into his lungs, kicking and screaming, and let it back out with a forceful gust. Time to face the music and not dance, but...ugh, metaphors. Fuck’em.

 

Hank got dressed in a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, leaving his fancy shirt and pants on a hanger beside Connor’s outfit. Padding barefoot into the open plan living room/kitchen space, he found his partner sitting on the opposite side of where he normally did: curled up against Hank’s pillows, blanket wrapped snug and tight around his shoulders, and Sumo stretched out on the remaining two seats like a dragon guarding its treasure.

 

Hank’s mouth tugged into a toothache smile. He poured himself another cup of coffee and went on over, taking a seat on the edge of the coffee table right in front of Connor. Turned out it was the only prompt he needed to start talking.

 

“I had such a nice dream last night. Or this morning. No troubles, no questions, then all of a sudden I have all these thoughts in my head. Questions I know the answers to, but I keep asking them, over and over. This isn’t like me. I don’t recognize myself anymore.”

 

Hank reached over to rub his knee through the blanket. He had an idea of what to say, just not necessarily where to start, but trust Connor to show him the way. “We’ve both been through a kind of Hell. I’d be more worried if nothing had changed. If everything was exactly the same after everything that’s happened.” He let his hand glide away, lifting it to scratch back and forth across his beard, then back around the base of his skull. There lay yet another proof of life, of time passed since December. The day before was the last time he’d done anything about his hair. He hadn’t exactly felt like  _ grooming _ , oh, the word pun, and his hair was growing back out. It was just as well. Connor had never indicated he wanted him to change anything but his diet - liquid and solid. “I’m...still seeing the PD shrink about-- December. Still coming to grips with that.”

 

Connor nodded. “It’s standard procedure after...such events.” He took the mug from Hank’s hand, lifting it to his face and leaning in for a deep sniff, then handed it back to him. Hank gave a mental Eyebrow Arch of such magnitude that required capital letters, but left it at that and had a mouthful of coffee instead of asking. He had something he needed to say, and that had to take priority to Connor’s quirks.

 

“And then, Thursday… That was--” He could feel his throat closing around his words before his brain had a chance to do something about it. He cleared his throat, took another sip. “I...couldn’t be happier to have you in my life. You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time - but I can’t forget how you died. I can’t just flip a switch and forget. You...do get that. Right?”

 

Connor nodded again, his eyes big and doe like, attentive like only an android could be. Hank went on, echoing the nod. “Maybe I should be having a physiological response to you. No, I know I should, but I’m not sure I can. I’m...too dazed. Or-- shit. Too fucked up.”

 

Their hands found each other, and held on tight. Connor’s mouth seemed to flicker into a smile, like a candle flame, warm and pretty. “Maybe that’s why I’m feeling like this. I’m...scared you won’t want me, find me physically attractive, but that’s just part of it. I...used to-” he hesitated. “I used to want you. So... _ much _ . And now that I could have you? Desire, sexual desire-- It’s all very academic.”

 

Hank smirked. “You wanted it more when you couldn’t have it? I’m sure there’s a psychological term for that.”

 

“That doesn’t sound very reassuring. What if I never want to have sex? At all?”

 

Hank shrugged, shaking his head. Fuck if he knew. It wasn’t that he was all out of fucks to give, he just didn’t have any energy left to worry about something like that. “Maybe we’re both overdue for some time off from everything. Emotionally K.O’d. Completely drained. Trying too hard to be back to ‘normal’.”

 

Connor’s shoulders slumped, his head tipping forward, forehead coming to rest against Hank’s with a dull little thud. “I want everything to go back to how it was. I know it can’t,  _ we _ will never be the same again, and… That makes me feel incredibly... _ sad _ .”

 

So, Hank gathered, this was the core of it: a fear of change. Of changing and not being able to stop it. He was the unwilling metamorph, in the midst of inevitable change. They both were, even if Hank was a bit further along in his own metamorphosis.

 

“You can’t stop change, Connor. But we’ll be stronger for it. Better. Faster. We have the technology.”

 

Hank could hear the hint of a smile in Connor’s voice. “Bionic men?”

 

“Six million dollar ones. Or, well. You, at least. God knows how much you’re worth.”

 

“What about you, then?”

 

“Me?” Hank grinned, because even if he couldn’t see Connor clearly from this close, he knew Connor’s eyes were always 20/20, or the android equivalent thereof. “I’m  _ priceless _ .”

 

Bad joke that it was, it made Connor giggle and groan at the same time, and they eased into a firm hug much like the other day in court: temple to temple, cheek to cheek, pressed so close together they had to be trading atoms on the molecular level. Hank felt compelled to wax poetic, and he did. In his own way.

 

“Let’s hibernate for the rest of the month, just you and me. Screw the party, screw the trial, let’s go hide under a mountain of blankets.”

 

Connor didn’t object, or point out exactly how poorly constructed a master plan it was, but he did have one important question. A qualifier, if you will. “What about Sumo?”

 

“Screw him too!”

 

“ _ Hank _ ...”

 

They each leaned back enough to trade quiet, tiny smiles. Connor rearranged the blanket to make room for all three of them (as much as such a thing was physically possible), with a bit of puppy whispering thrown into the mix. Hank still found it heartwarming to see how good Connor was with the Saint Bernard who still thought he was a ten-pound pup. Android and dog, best friends for life.

 

They had a great deal to decompress, or defragment, sort into little manageable blocks of facts and events. They had been through enough to last a lifetime, and if they could just get through the coming week, maybe things would finally be alright after all. Tomorrow they had a party to go to, and on Monday they had to go back to the scene of their most recent traumas - but for the time being, they spent nearly the entire day curled up around each other on Hank’s old couch, with Sumo demanding group cuddles. No matter how you looked at it, it was a day well spent.


	16. Human Behavior

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A party becomes a port in the storm, of a sort, a celebration of life, all kinds of it. When you know you're smack dab in the eye of the storm, you have to make the best of it given the tools at your disposal. Connor goes through a rite of passage, Hank is overwhelmed by the kindness and acceptance of his friends and colleagues. Connor meets baby Damian properly for the first time. Markus and Connor have a moment together, and a chat that spirals out of control - but in a good way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The closer I get to the end, the more I procrastinate. Sorry, everyone, and thank you for sticking with me all this time. Next chapter is almost finished, and then I fear, comes the epilogue. :( I've loved writing this so much, I don't want it to end! That's my plan, at any rate. We'll see if my proverbial muses say otherwise.

* * *

 

 

Sunday morning rolled around, and while Hank’s humble home filled with the familiar scent of coffee and oatmeal (he was sick of the stuff, really, but it was easy and familiar - a comforting reminder of childhood, no matter how much it sometimes reminded him of glue), there was a different kind of energy in the air. It was five a.m and everyone was up and at ‘em. Connor and Sumo had gone for a walk and came back with tails wagging and ears perked, both of them, albeit one more metaphorical than the other. They were happy, and comfortable with each other in ways Hank didn’t think they’d really been since Connor came back. When their eyes met across the open space of kitchen and living room, Connor getting out of his winter coat, Hank leaning back against the kitchen counter, bowl of gloop in hand, they grinned at each other like there was no tomorrow. Hank wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, positively tingling on the inside, just at the sight of him.

 

“Good walk?”

 

“It was wonderful!” Connor chirped -  _ chirped _ , he was so happy - “Wasn’t it, Sumo?” Their eyes met, android and dog, and Sumo made a noise to the affirmative. Connor looked up again, leaving his shoes by the door. It was snowy out, sludgy in places. No good dragging it into the house when Hank preferred walking around barefoot.

 

“I was thinking…” He said, walking into the house, closing the distance between them in a matter of seconds. Guy got legs and knew how to use them. Economy of movement and whatnot. Poetry in motion. Hank grinned, or perhaps he’d never stopped, as Connor hugged him from the side and placed his chin atop his shoulder. Hank turned his head to kiss his forehead.

 

“Spill.”

 

“We should make a statement to the press. About us getting married.”

 

Far as anticipated requests went, that was not one of them, and while it was unexpected Hank couldn’t fault it. “I hadn’t thought of that…” He had another spoonful of porridge and diced apple, chewed through - and didn’t exactly stare as Connor dipped two of his fingers into the porridge and touched them to his tongue.

 

“Cinnamaldehyde has such a lovely molecular structure,” he said, eyes positively sparkling. Hank found it particularly difficult to complain about Connor’s manners when he had such a look of wonder in his eyes.

 

“Uhuh? Show me?” Hank waggled his eyebrows at him, teasing without words, happy to see Connor bring up his free hand, palm facing front, displaying a 3D hologram of aforementioned molecule. He was right - it was kinda pretty. For a molecule. “It’s no Monet, but I see what you mean.” A beat, a twitch of his eyebrow - an idea sparking out of nowhere. “We should go to the DIA. Look at some paintings and shit.”

 

“The Detroit Institute of Arts?” Connor’s mind was very obviously boggled. His 3D imagery faded from his palm, his eyes were wide with surprised delight. “To look at ‘paintings and shit’? Wow. Hank. When you put it that way…”

 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m not artsy, but, you know…” He refused to shuffle his weight from foot to foot - this wasn’t awkward at all. He didn’t mind explaining his reasoning for suddenly wanting to take Connor to a goddamn museum, even if it was just a teensy bit weird. “I hate shopping.  _ Hate it _ to bits, but...I had a great time shopping clothes with you, on both occasions. So, logically speaking…”

 

“Hank Anderson, talking about logic? Be still, my heart.” Connor grinned, and pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “We’ll make a day of it, and if we don’t like it, we’ll do something else.”

 

Hank smiled. One more box to tick off their list of Connor’s First Things to Do Together. All the little things people take for granted that Connor had no experience of - like sand between your toes. They were  _ so _ gonna go to the beach come summertime. And amusement parks! Cedar Point was a must. That would just--  _ have to _ be their first stop for Hank’s first vacation in how many years? It was about damn time he took some time off without being sick or injured. “Sounds like a plan to me. You’re right about the media, though. We should tell them. We’re public figures, can’t change that, and the paperwork’s on public record. Just a matter of time before someone digs it up, or word gets out.”

 

Connor rubbed the sticky oatmeal between this thumb and fingers, contemplating its molecular bindings, or whatnot, a happy little curl lingering on his lips. Hank could only imagine what went on inside that impressive head of his. It wasn’t the first time he’d thought Connor had an innocent outlook on life: not all aspects of it, but there were times he had a childlike wonder in his eyes or voice - when he talked about things he liked, such as music, or Sumo, or cinnamaldehyde (whatever that was). It was sweet, and a stark contrast to his professional role. Hank hoped he would never lose it. Frankly, he thought the world could use more of the stuff. Childlike wonder… Wonder, period. Yeah. Humanity sure as Hell needed more where that came from.

 

“We should record something,” Connor said, once again dabbing at the tip of his tongue with those sticky fingers, seeming completely unaware of what signals he might be sending out. Hank let it slide - they could have a chat about evocative gestures at a later date. Right now he was more intrigued by Connor’s train of thought.

 

“What, like video? Why not just write something?”

 

Connor shrugged, and disentangled himself briefly, just long enough to rinse his hand under the kitchen tap. “I think my invitation to the party proved I can’t express myself in writing,” he noted, wry, eyes glinting with mirth. He settled back against the counter, side by side with Hank, hand gliding around Hank’s back, resting easily around one of his love handles. He may have lost some weight, but he still bore the tell-tale signs of a man who didn’t care about caloric content or saturated fats (Hank had worried about that, back before he had a date with Death and got stood up: whether Connor would find  _ him _ physically attractive, with his dad bod’ gone downhill. It all seemed trivial now. He  _ would _ make an effort to be healthier, or take bigger strides towards that goal - but Connor liked him as is. Buckled and dented and worn around the edges. Connor loved him, love handles and weird looking ears and psychedelic shirt prints and all. It was a humbling thought, that a human outlook on attraction wasn’t the only one around anymore).

 

Connor went on, perhaps sensing Hank’s mind lay elsewhere. “And you’ve certainly shown you can talk good.”

 

Hank blinked, scraping the last bits from his bowl. “I ‘talk good’? Jesus, Connor, never thought I’d ask you to go less English on me.”

 

They shared impish looks; Hank put away the bowl in the sink. Doing the dishes could wait. “Alright… So, we record something. Give the media our side of the story, and they can run with it?”

 

Connor nodded, hands going to his back pockets. “It didn’t work out too well with CyberLife, but like you said, a lot has happened while I was in standby. We’re not using anyone as the middleman, we’re talking directly to the press. Like you did with Joss Douglas at Hart Plaza.”

 

“Mhmn,” Hank groused. That had been a completely different thing. That was doing what was needed, necessary,  _ called for _ , he had heard the ancient call to action and heeded it. This was...private. But, like nine times out of ten, Connor was right about this. This was their chance to tell it like they saw it. Didn’t have to be too invasive, just a brief message, to the point, just them sharing the happy news with the world before someone else did. “Do I have to dress up? I don’t have to, do I?”

 

Connor’s face lit up like a happy emoticon. “ _ No _ . You’re fine!”

 

“Thank God.”

 

They set up shop in the living room, Connor folding Hank’s blanket over the backrest out of his predilection for order and neatness, while Hank tried to prop up his phone with some of his books and sipping coffee between attempts. It was tricky, but he felt like a superhuman when he got the thing to stand upright and angled just right. If he could raise both arms above his head at the same time, he would’ve done a little happy dance.

 

“...what’s that?” asked Connor, with a strange look of fondness in the slant of his smile.

 

“It’s my phone. It has a camera. We’re all set.”

 

“That is true.” Connor nodded, biting his lip so as not to grin, or worse, laugh. He didn’t quite succeed.

 

Hank sighed, throwing his hands as far up as they went. “Alright. Out with it.”

 

“No, no, it’s fine. It’s  _ good _ . But… I think your tv is a better option. That’s all.”

 

Of all the-- “My tv has a camera?”

 

“Yes! And wi-fi!”

 

In Hank’s humble opinion, this was not something one should be quite so excited about. He shuddered to think who or what might have spied on him watching the game, or drinking himself into a stupor… And they were  _ never _ snuggling on the couch  _ ever again _ . “Goddammit. Okay.” He pushed the books off to the side of the table, and his phone, and sat down heavily. “Work your techno mojo.”

 

Connor joined him on the couch, LED circling away as the tv came alive with a crisp, hi-def view of their living room. Low level clutter included - not a Hallmark movie home, or something you saw in Interior Design Monthly, it was a  _ home _ . Possible mold spreading through the bedroom ceiling, but they weren’t in there now, and any kind of fixing up could wait. Hank felt confident Connor would point out any health and safety issues the second he saw them.

 

“We look alright.”

 

Connor hummed affirmative. “No work clothes. Just us. Tv, zoom in...hold.”

 

Hank lifted his mug for a small mouthful. Thank all the pantheons for coffee. “And you still look more stylish than me. How is that possible? Jeans and a t-shirt, and you’d fit right in at any party.”

 

“Award winning design and construction,” Connor said, with the sweetest smile you ever did see. “We’re recording.”

 

“Shit!”

 

He was joking, thankfully, and completely over the moon at successfully pranking his partner for the first time. Together they decided on what they wanted to get across, if not word for word, but bullet points. Five takes later, including a great deal of swearing (on Hank’s part), they were happy as they could be with their amateur press release. It was either that, or sit there for hours, nitpicking away at details. They wanted to keep it simple, informal, as casual as it could be. They watched the video on the curved tv, and as per every other tv watching occasion, Hank ended up watching Connor more than the screen. As long as he was happy, Hank could deal with anything that came their way. Absolutely anything.

 

When the video came to a close with Connor-on-tv ducking his head with a happy-awkward grin, their tv selves taking each other’s hand, Hank sat there on the couch in the real world feeling like the luckiest guy alive.

 

“Ready?” he asked, looking his love in the eye. Connor had the same happy-awkward look in his eyes as in the video. Hank found it nothing short of breathtaking.

 

“Ready,” said Connor, and sent the video to every major newspaper in town, every tv station - LED rolling yellow, lashes fluttering over whited-out eyes: done and dusted. In a matter of hours the news would be all over town, all over the state, possibly even the country. Hank shuddered to think that it would possibly go global, viral, spreading like wildfire - but at least this was their own narrative, their own truth. No one could take that away from them.

 

By God, he hoped no one would get it in their head to try.

 

***

 

_ This is Rosanna Cartland for KNC’s Sunday morning news, wishing you a good morning. I hope you’re sitting down comfortably, because the first item of the day is quite extraordinary. Lieutenant Hank Anderson and his android partner, Connor, got married not two days ago-- _

 

_ \--earlier this morning, all major news outlets received a video sent by the original RK800 detective android attached to Detroit PD’s major crimes division, and what is on it, folks, is  _ **_unprecedented_ ** _ \-- _

 

_ \--Michael, I’m telling you, this is not just history in the making, this is the future! Marriage between an android and a human?! I don’t think my brain can handle it! This is nothing short of EPIC. _

 

_ Alright, Joss, how about you take a deep breath, while we here at the studio extend our best wishes and-- somewhat baffled congratulations to the happy couple. Love is in the air, people, not even a week after Valentine’s. More to come right here on Channel 16’s Sunday morning news, after the break. _

 

***

 

It was a given that the press release as such would be the talk of the day, it just went without saying, but when the happy two got to the Fowler residence, they didn’t quite expect such a welcoming...well. Welcome. They were early by a good two hours, both believing they should be there to help with preparations, but the Fowlers completely took them by surprise. Everything was already set up, everyone was there, the food was laid out all over the kitchen island ready for sampling (and it wasn’t just takeaway pizza, or bowls of popcorn and such, but it seemed everyone and their +1 had brought a deep dish), spicy meat and veg stews sat alongside roast potatoes and chicken, someone had brought a peach cobbler; and instead of a wedding cake, Lydia had made an enormous apple pie with a crumble topping. Jessica made cheats’ ice cream out of powder custard(!!!) to go with the pie. Hank’s mind was blown - but the real kicker was the decorations. Congratulatory banner hanging from the ceiling aside, the walls were full of framed pictures - where there had been family photos, now they were all of Connor and Hank, Hank and Connor, in black-and-white and full color, sharing space on walls and flat surfaces, all framed by the same thin, black wood.

 

Connor was mesmerized, jaw slack, eyes wide open and moving from one crisp photograph to the next. “That’s--! That’s from the office party! And Hart Plaza!”

 

They were all stills, screenshots snagged from Lydia’s vlog, from newsreels, anything ever recorded that they were both in at the same time (and some of it from Hank’s solo gigs as Very Determined Activist, some closeups of Connor, mostly from the party, but also from the press release). Hank barely knew what to do with himself, he could scarcely draw breath for realizing how much work that went into it all. Screengrabs, yeah, fine, but to edit and print and cut out and frame…

 

“Printer’s been going crazy over the weekend,” Jeffrey said, pouring Hank a hot drink of non-alcoholic but spiced apple juice. “Not to mention this morning! Jess wanted to make something special for you guys. She’s proud to be part of it all, even if it’s on the outside looking in.”

 

“God, Jeff…” Hank groaned, overwhelmed by the attention, the care and effort. “They’re gorgeous. I don’t-- We don’t have any pictures…”

 

“You do now.” Jeffrey grinned, and together they shared a quiet toast, to friends and loved ones, while Jessica gave Connor a mandatory manicure by the coffee table (midnight blue or purple suede? Maybe winter wonderland with sparkles? Decisions, decisions: Connor let Jessica decide, and thus his nails were transformed to a sheer white sparkle to rival the fresh snow outside), Connor’s à capella gang looking on with shameless intrigue.

 

“I see Connor’s acing his rite of passage with Jess,” Lydia pointed out, setting down a plate of food in front of her favorite Lieutenant. Chili san carne, roast potatoes, chicken - a bit of everything, but Hank’s attention lay elsewhere.

 

“Yeah.” He couldn’t hear them with the music playing in the background, but everyone was smiling and talking - Jessica was the center of attention, talking animatedly about something or other, and Connor of all people was hanging onto her every word. He wasn’t merely listening to her natter on about teenager stuff like some adults did, but genuinely attentive. They were getting on like a house on fire. 

 

“Yeah,” Hank said again, catching himself staring. “You don’t let a girl do your nails at least once in your life, you haven’t lived.”

 

“Hear, hear,” cheered Jeffrey, and raised his glass to the entire room in a spontaneous toast. “To life! All kinds of it!”

 

The room cheered, abuzz with the happy vibes. Hank peered at his friends, and sniffed at Jeffrey’s apple juice mocktail. “You sure there’s no booze in this?”

 

***

 

Everyone who mattered was there, and absolutely everyone was talking about the clip circling around the news - Oliver Wilson called it the best thing since holes in cheese, watching the different channels and anchors trying to give it their own spin when the clip spoke for itself: they were just a happy couple going public, because the public was gonna stick its nose in their business sooner or later. Of course, that’s not the way they had put it, but only because Connor had insisted on the diplomatic route. If it were up to Hank and Hank alone, he would’ve told everyone to go fuck themselves, or something similarly colorful.

 

Ben shook his head at the pair of them, but clinked glasses with Hank in a token of quiet congratulations. It was worlds apart from his overjoyed shock just a few days ago, but he’d had some time to zen out, as it were. “You’re crazy. Both of you. Insane in the membrane.”

 

“Insane in the brain?” Hank shot back, knowing it would rattle Ben’s cage and not giving a damn.

 

And just when Collins was about to give a come back, Connor made things worse. Or possibly better. He aligned his hands as if working an invisible turntable, spinning that record. And he made sound effects. Hank wasn’t the only one recognizing the pop culture reference. Collins made a snerking noise at the back of his nose, and nudged Connor in the arm.

 

“I rest my case.”

 

Even Chris and Lisa Miller were there with baby Damian, conspiring with Lydia to get to view the video from the Christmas party. They’d come early and left early, what with the baby, shortly after Hank got there, and… Well. They’d missed out, and now felt like it was a good time to rectify it. Hank didn’t know if he or Connor were more embarrassed and/or bashful about the idea of the entire room watching  _ that video _ , but Lisa was not going to give up that easy.

 

“Tell you what,” she said, looking at Connor with a glint in her eye that more than hinted she was up to no good whatsoever. “I’ll let you hold my baby if you let us watch the vid...”

 

She said it like it was the greatest bargain ever, and Hank couldn’t help but chuckle at the look on Connor’s face - completely clueless. “Why would I want to hold Damian?” He looked at the little baby boy, who’d grown quite a bit in the last two months and wasn’t quite so little anymore - as babies were wont to do. “Why would  _ he _ want me to hold him? I’m a stranger, I--”

 

“It’s alright,” Chris said, encouraging. “He loves everybody, no stranger anxiety just yet. Even  _ Hank  _ gets away with making weird noises at him.”

 

“Weird noises? Baby talk is a universal lingo, kid.  _ Universal _ . No one’s doing him any favors talking to him like an adult just to be ‘cool’,” and he turned to the little guy in Lisa’s arms with a cooing voice that if possible made Connor look even more uncomfortable. “Am I right, bubby? I’m right, aren’t I. Yeah, you tell’em, Uncle Hank knows what he’s talking about.”

 

“See?” said Chris, and Lisa handed over baby with a grin. “Support his back, hand under his bum-bum. There you go! Hold tight, don’t let him wriggle anywhere.”

 

Connor and baby Damian looked at each other like they were each the most fascinating thing in existence; Connor holding the six-month-old like he was made of fine glass, and Damian using every square inch of both hands to map out everything he could reach - Connor’s face, including his teeth, and his shirt. “Um. Hello? Hi. I’m-- perfectly safe. See? Oh! What’s that? A button? That’s a button!”

 

Damian made a sporfling noise, and within moments baby and android were smiling at each other. Connor made another attempt at small talk, although without the weird noises. Hank may be the resident expert on babies in their household, but Connor was  _ not _ ready for cooing. “You were born in August, right? Just like me.”

 

“--ba-ba-ba- _ ba _ !”

 

“...something like that,” said Connor in agreement. “In fact, you’re older than me! Isn’t that something, huh? I bet you’ll never let me forget that, when you get older. It will be our private joke.”

 

Hank brushed the back of his fingers over Damian’s cheek. “Who’d ‘ve thought we’d reach a point in history where age really  _ is  _ just a number. Hm?”

 

Connor tilted his head, a warmth filling his eyes at seeing Hank interact with the baby, now the initial reluctance had passed. “Age isn’t just  _ a _ number. If measured precisely enough, age could be  _ any _ number, using an infinite amount of decimals: a continuous variable. It’s only when it’s measured as a discrete variable that we can begin to talk about age being just ‘a number’.”

 

The four adult humans all looked between each other, recognizing one of Connor’s forays into Quite Interesting Facts territory when they saw it. Damian gurgled happily, as if the entire universe was known to him, and he concurred with his new friend’s mathematical factoid. Connor went on. “For example, anything  _ below  _ seven months and everything  _ above  _ six months equalling six months? Instead of Damian’s age in years being point five-one--”

 

“Right. Okay. Gotcha. Christ--” said Hank, but the curse came with a note of wonder. Ageism aside, they could all agree there was something quite special about six-month-olds, no matter what size they came in.

 

***

 

The viewing itself was one of the more surreal aspects of the evening, for both Hank and Connor (Mark I  _ and  _ II). As it happened, they ended up sitting next to each other on the couch, Hank at one end, Mark II at the other, with Connor sat smack dab between them.

 

“It feels strange to watch,” said Connor, right hand on Hank’s left knee, Hank’s hand on top. Minute by minute, Connor and the gang had gone through their repertoire on screen, and minute by minute Hank’s heart rate had gone up. Everyone around them  was chatting happily, excited, reminiscing or seeing it for the first time. The room was alive with energy, not least of all radiating off the four leaders of Jericho. It was as if they had a personal stake in this, too, as if there was so much more to it than just a grand gesture to rival all others. They had come to know Hank over the past weeks, they considered him one of them, and this? It wasn’t just hearsay anymore. They could see it with their own eyes. North looked as if she was ready to climb the walls (perhaps out of all of them, she had been most affected by what happened in the courtroom. Out of all four leaders she was the one who held humans in the lowest esteem, but seeing them together had given her a fresh sense of hope. If one human could be so dedicated, so loyal to one android...then perhaps she could come to give the rest of humanity the benefit of the doubt). 

 

Connor could feel his own heart speed up in anticipation. He didn’t know if he felt insanely happy or terrified of everyone watching him go to pieces in less than ten seconds.

 

“It feels like a dream,” said Mark II. “I know they’re not my memories, but I-- I  _ know _ what you felt.”

 

Connor smiled, but it was more apprehensive than cheerful. “Overwhelmed with panic? Weighed down by several hundred possible futures?”

 

Mark II shrugged, as the Connor on screen broke down completely. There were sad sighs and gasps all around them (eyes looking their way, and back to the screen), but Mark II simply went on as if unaware of the commotion. “Scared. Thinking you’re at peace with the choices you’ve made, knowing they’re for the best for everyone involved, and then the only person who really matters shows you how wrong you were. And it’s, it’s not that you were wrong, exactly. It’s just that you weren’t  _ right _ . And  _ that _ is terrifying. Normally we have evidence to go by, and we trust where the evidence leads, but this time we got it all mixed up.”

 

“It would be so much easier if everything was black and white,” Connor sighed in agreement. “Clear cut, no gray areas.”

 

“And then Hank comes along telling you not even the sky’s the limit, there’s  _ nothing _ that’s out of bounds, it’s all yours, whatever you want or need, anything. All of it. Whether you know you need it is irrelevant, he’ll make it happen.”

 

The Connors looked at each other and shared surprised twin grins, arching their eyebrows in unison. Beside Connor, Hank was incredibly quiet, had been quiet throughout their musing. His eyes were a touch too bright when Connor turned to look, his jaw tight with tension, mouth moving side to side with unspoken words. In one swift but stiff movement, he got to his feet. “Can I-- Can I just say something? Tv, pause-- I…” His breath gusted out of him, and he looked out over the people there - Collins, the Millers, Wilson and Chen, Andy and Eric, the entire à capella troupe, Fowler and his family, Connor’s would’ve-been successor, the four leaders of Jericho.

 

“I haven’t got around to thanking you all for coming tonight, or, or for bringing all this food,  _ God _ . Uh. I… Some of you were there on Friday, when Connor and I got married, and, you know we, um, we didn’t do vows or anything but--” He looked at the tv screen - and the screenshots turned into photographic treasures. “I’m not really a big gestures guy, I mean-- Jeff’s the one who talked me into  _ doing something _ , but… That’s it. That song. It’s silly and sentimental, but--”

 

Connor looked on as Hank’s eyes grew impossibly brighter, as some fresh wave of emotion got the better of him. Hank shook his head; their hands found each other, Connor stayed seated, frozen in place. “As long as I’m alive, I’ll do everything in my power to make things happen for you. Tiny or humongous, I don’t care. I know that’s just a stupid song, but I meant every word. That night you quoted it at me, I  _ knew _ . It was...nothing short of life changing. Everything  _ made sense _ .”

 

“Hank…” Connor said, softly, pleading for something he wasn’t sure of, just wanting to make the haunted look in his loved one’s eyes go away, it was painful to see. “ _ Hank _ ...”

 

But Hank shook his head. “To, uh, to quote someone incredibly dear to me, someone who’s  _ so much smarter _ than me… ‘ I like the person I am with you. You bring out sides of me I didn’t know I was capable of.’ And I stand by that. I’m a better person when I’m with you. You make me better than I was before, you remind me of who I used to be, who I  _ can be _ . Or, become. Shit.  _ Who I am _ .”

 

Suddenly Hank wasn’t the only one struggling against a wave of emotion, whether it was all coming back to him from seeing the footage from the party, memories that were too fresh and too vivid, visceral in nature; whether it was Mark II’s matter-of-fact way of pointing things out, but just like that everything felt too tight on the inside. Constricting, closing in - painful, yes, but not from sadness. Could you be so happy you ached from it? “You remember,” he said, blown away despite himself. “That’s what I told you at the coffee shop.”

 

Hank nodded. “On our first date. Yeah. I’ll never forget that. How could I?”

 

“I said that,” Connor told the room, too happy for words. He shot up, his hands going to cover Hank’s bearded cheeks, touch his brow and caress down the sides of his face. “I-- I don’t know what to say.”

 

“‘Ditto’ ‘s always worked before,” Hank suggested, teasing through all the emotion. They shared wet-sounding chortles.

 

“I love you,” said Connor matter-of-factly, and kissed his cheek as Hank pulled him into a hug.

 

“I love you too, honey.”

 

For a moment, no one said anything. People sneakily dabbed at their eyes, or shared self conscious grins with each other. Things were looking up, things were changing, but everyone there knew how fragile these things were. You couldn’t take anything for granted. Not anyone. Anything and everything you cherished and thought would last forever could be gone in an instant. Everyone present on December 30 had seen how close their friends came to losing everything. Just an inch here or there, choices made too late or at the wrong time, and everything could have played out differently. But for the choices made, they were all here now, sharing a tearful, happy moment with friends.

 

Jessica was the one who piped up first, giving everyone a long, hard look of assessment. “I think it’s time we bring out Mega Superstar 5, or I don’t know what’s gonna happen...”

 

There was a smattering of relieved chuckles. Jeffrey gestured for his baby girl to go on, set stuff up. “That’s what I’m talking about, time to kick ass and take names!”

 

Connor blinked too rapid for human eyes to register it, while Hank helped wipe his cheeks with broad wind wiper thumb motions. “I, uh, I think I need some space.”

 

Hank nodded, to Connor’s everlasting gratitude. “Go on. Jess’ got a killer snowman in the backyard. Literally. It’s got an axe and everything. Check it out.”

 

***

 

A little while later, Connor stood outside in the cold, watching as hundreds upon hundreds of big white snowflakes floated down from a sky so dark it was almost black. Endless black, dotted by increasingly bigger spots of light. He hoped it was an omen of the coming days, though he didn’t believe in omens as such, that though it seemed dark and endless right now, it wouldn’t stay that way. Inside, the music was still playing just a bit too loud for human ears, but the energy was so high it could reach the heavens, and everyone was having a good time. Captain Fowler was at the center of attention, proving once and for all that not all black men had rhythm - to the embarrassment of his wife and daughter - but what he lacked in rhythm, he made up for with buckets of attitude. Everyone was having fun. Connor, too, but...for whatever reason, he needed a bit of open spaces, away from everyone else. He felt--  _ too much _ , just being in the same room with everyone. Out here, it was silent, the sounds of traffic further away providing a blanket of white noise. Here, he could over-analyze things as much as he wanted.

 

“Ten bucks for your thoughts?” asked a familiar voice coming from behind him, and Connor turned his head to look over his shoulder - right into a welcome set of blue and green eyes. Markus, and his telltale silent step. It certainly facilitated stealth…

 

“Only ten? That will barely buy Hank a sandwich. But, fair enough.” He smiled, turning his gaze back to the snowflakes, and how they almost resembled stars. If they weren’t floating in the air. If he squinted at them.

 

“I can go from feeling invincible to sinking into untold depths of despair in the course of a day. Hours, even. Is that-- normal? I keep thinking I must have been compromised somehow. Or had my software corrupted somehow.”

 

Markus came to stand beside him, hands in his pockets. For a moment they simply stood there side by side, watching the snow fall. “System status?”

 

“No issues. Everything up to date. All clear.”

 

Markus pouted ever so slightly, mouth moving before he settled on what to say. “Then...you’re not going crazy, if that’s what you’re asking. If anything, I think you’re remarkably calm for everything you’ve been through since last year. And I’m not just talking about the shooting. Everything that came before that, too. If it was me, I would’ve run for the hills a long time ago. A  _ long _ time ago.”

 

“Mmn,” Connor hummed, neither confirming nor denying Markus’ observations. “I think I’m so happy I could cry. Does that sound ’remarkably calm’, to you? I can barely look at all the photos Jessica made without getting emotional.”

 

“You could’ve fooled me.” Markus smiled. “...it’s called tears of joy. Being so happy you start to cry. But if you’re telling me you’re heading for some sort of breakdown…” 

 

Markus spoke with such understated surety that it eased Connor’s mind enough to tag along with his teasing, and attempt a joke of sorts. “Nonsense. We’re made of the same stuff. Stronger stuff.”

 

“Stronger stuff?”

 

“Something like that.”

 

Markus turned his head, quiet a moment. He looked his friend in the eye with obvious scrutiny, weighing his words. “You know something I don’t?”

 

For the space of a moment, some three-point-one-four seconds, Connor didn’t say anything. Markus was brilliant in his own right, and he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d never suspected anything. Connor could remember the first time he found out, how stunned he had felt. Shocked enough that he couldn’t tell Hank what he’d stumbled across at the Stratford Tower. “I’ve been thinking a lot about who I am, lately. What it means to be me, what I was designed to be, what I’ve become, or… Grown into.”

 

He pushed his shoulders as far up as he could, not entirely sure why, or what it meant, far as human body language went. He just felt...unsure. “I used to take things for granted. I assumed there was an order to things, that everything had a logical explanation, but the more I think, the less I feel like I know  _ anything _ . Take us, for example.” He gestured at the space between them, then crossed his arms over his chest despite not feeling the cold. “How can two models of the same product line be so different?”

 

A light seemed to flicker in Markus’ eyes. He nodded the once, slow and measured. He had made the connection. He knew what Connor was talking about. “The RK model.”

 

“How CyberLife can go from developing a domestic prototype like the RK200 to...completely changing its purpose. You’re a caretaker, primarily. You’re good with humans, you’re at ease in a domestic context.”

 

Markus nodded. The RK200 was developed as a caretaker, but like Connor he had grown into something quite different. “Maybe you were also intended to be a domestic model,” he suggested. “A caretaker, or childcare provider, housekeeper. Maybe with the deviant ‘threat’ CyberLife didn’t have time to develop a completely new model. Product R&D takes  _ years _ , even with today’s technology.”

 

Connor found himself echoing Markus’ second nod. “That’s what I’m suspecting. It’s...unlikely they could design, develop and build me from scratch in a matter of months.”

 

“Highly unlikely,” Markus agreed. “Maybe that’s why you like dogs? You’re good with kids.”

 

It couldn’t be. Connor felt his own jaw go slack, dangling from its hinges. “I do. I  _ am _ .”

 

“And music. You  _ love _ music.”

 

“I  _ love _ music. I  _ love _ Sumo. But--” As much as it felt like things were making sense, like little pieces of a puzzle finally finding their allotted space, he couldn’t simply accept that as the be-all and end-all. “You infiltrated Stratford Tower and Channel 16. You bypassed security at the CyberLife store. You can hack-- all kinds of systems.”

 

“True. Maybe our original purpose was something completely different.”

 

Connor sighed. If he could get headaches, he suspected this conversation might give him a migraine. “Domestic operatives?”

 

Markus smiled like something out of a dark fairytale. “Nannybots, fit to apprehend and detain intruders. Licensed to eliminate threats.”

 

Connor shook his head, but his friend’s grin was infectious. He couldn’t help but chuckle in response, feeling tired and buzzing with energy at the same time. “This is not where I thought this conversation was heading.”

 

“Hidden depths?”

 

“Let’s leave it at that,” Connor said, half wishing he’d never asked. “ _ Cousin _ .”

 

“Cousin… I like that. I like the sound of that.”

 

And Connor did, too. Maybe family among androids didn’t work the same way as in human society, but he couldn’t help but remember Hank talking about choosing your own family. That he was part of the DPD family as well as the Jericho community, as well as him and Hank’s family unit of three, including Sumo. Maybe that’s how it had to be, or should be, until the day androids themselves could choose how to reproduce. They were part of a chosen family, regardless whether they belonged to the same product line (but it still felt  _ nice _ to know they were. How singularly strange).

 

“So, your professional opinion is I’ll be okay? I’m simply stressed out over my own stress responses?”

 

“Yeah.” Markus nudged him, elbow to elbow. “You’ll be fine. Just take it easy, don’t worry too much.”

 

“Don’t become a conspiracy theorist?”

 

Markus laughed out loud at that, eyes sparkling. “Probably for the best. Don’t quit your day job.”

 

It was just as well. Down that path lay nothing but doubts and worries and more analyses branching off one another until he well and truly lost his mind to the calculations. He was happy exactly where he was, anyhow. Maybe it was good to know one’s roots, one’s origins, but he was perfectly happy to let it wait. He was happy just to be alive, in the moment, looking forward to a future of his own making. And, not least of all, to see his friend doing the same.

 

“Simon’s not looking tormented anymore…” he said, glancing at said friend, who glanced back, unable to stop a bashful smile from spreading across his entire face.

 

“Yeah… I asked him out for coffee, actually. Took inspiration from you and Hank,” said Markus. “It, uh, gave him a bit of a shock. Next day we...ended up walking, together, for hours, just…” He shrugged, head tilting side to side.

 

Connor arched his eyebrows, expectant. “Just being together?”

 

“Yeah. We talked. Just...talked. Holding hands. We-- interfaced with each other.”

 

Markus had a look of wonder in his eyes that Connor had never seen in him before. As if the world made a bit more sense now. He knew the feeling. “You understand him better now?”

 

“We shared our memories. It was like I was  _ there _ , living his life. There’s so much I didn’t know, didn’t have a clue…It feels like I know him better than I know myself now, better than I’ve ever known anything else.”

 

The way he talked about it made something inside Connor twinge, some new emotion he recognized by proxy. Connor, the other Connor, had felt jealousy. This felt not entirely dissimilar. “I wish I could interface with Hank. So he could really know me. Understand me, see the world through my eyes.”

 

Markus looked up at the sky, eyes blinking against the snowflakes landing on his face. “I’d say you two are constantly uplinked to each other. I wouldn’t worry about that either, if I were you.”

 

He was right, naturally. No one understood him quite like Hank did, and vice versa. Sometimes Connor could’ve sworn Hank had read his mind just by looking at him. He seemed to know what he was feeling long before Connor could even think of a suitable word for it. Just like he could tell when Hank was about to completely lose his temper, or sink into one of his darker moods. They didn’t just understand each other, they could anticipate each other in a way Connor didn’t know was possible before he got to know him.

 

“We don’t want to have sex with each other. For the time being. Should that be a cause for concern? And-- what if we don’t want to-- at the same time? How will I know when the time’s right?”

 

The two androids looked at each other, neither one of them entirely sure about the human concept of libido, or exactly how to go about initiating sex with one.

 

Connor made a not entirely happy face. He didn’t want to ask, but… “Have you and Simon…?”

 

“No.” Markus shook his head.

 

Connor nodded. “...what about…?”

 

“Nope.”

 

They fell silent, each turning their eyes to watching the stars that had to be hiding behind the decade old layers of built-up pollution. Connor’s next question was just as succinct, but also fully formed. “Do you want to?”

 

Markus turned his head once more, an inscrutable light in his eyes. “I don’t know. I don’t see why, but maybe if Simon wants to...he could change my mind.” He shrugged, shifting his weight to the other foot. “Maybe you just have to change Hank’s mind, when  _ you  _ want it enough.”

 

How in the world they ended up talking about this, neither one of them knew. Connor didn’t know if he felt awkward or relieved to have voiced his concerns, and by the look on Markus’ face, he felt the same. Awkward, but not in an entirely bad way.

 

Even with all the queries he had, it felt good to be able to pose at least some of them. It felt good to be alive, even if it meant sharing an awkward, somewhat embarrassing moment of friendship with the closest thing he had to a cousin.

 

“We should go back inside,” he suggested. “I have it on good authority Captain Fowler is the kind of man who sends out search parties.”

 

“But he knows where we are. I’m sure he saw both of us go out here.”

 

“From what I understand, that doesn’t seem to enter the equation.” Connor smiled, and gestured for Markus to take the lead. Back into the fray. Or, rather, it was time to face the music - and dance.

 

***

 

Later yet they swayed to the music, Connor’s arms crossed behind Hank’s neck, forehead to forehead and grinning like maniacs, while Connor sang along. As long as he had music, as long as he could feel the rhythm, he didn’t need any worldly goods in order to be happy. As long as Hank was alive and well and  _ happy _ , Connor would be happy. It struck him as a strange notion, that one’s own happiness could be completely contingent on someone else’s. He shifted positions, leaning his chin on Hank’s broad shoulder instead, eyes catching sight of Markus gazing across the room with a look of perfect contentment on his face, sketching away on the small notepad he kept with him ever since the cease-fire. And the object of his artistic persuasions? Simon. He tapped his index finger at the nape of Hank’s neck.

 

“What?”

 

“No sudden movements, but you see Markus? And Simon?”

 

They swayed to the music; Hank stealing a surreptitious glance this way, then that way. “Happy campers. What about ‘em?”

 

“Simon. He used to look so miserable. The way he’d look at Markus reminded me of you, only more tortured. Sad and blue.”

 

Hank’s mouth turned into an upside down smile. “Dun’ look tortured now. They’re beaming at each other like twin suns, or something.”

 

“I’m glad Markus finally did something about it. He asked him out for coffee, and they ended up walking and talking for hours. Just...being  _ together _ .”

 

He was surprised to hear Hank’s startled groan. “You knew? And you told him about it? Connor...baby, don’t do that.”

 

“I was sharing my observations. It’s what I  _ do _ .”

 

“It’s called meddling. Don’t meddle. Or play matchmaker. It always ends up biting you in the ass.”

 

Connor considered the piece of advice, deciding to take Hank’s word for it. “Duly noted. We should dance more often,” he suggested instead, leaning cheek to cheek with his  _ beau _ . Or was that an archaic term? Semantics... “We haven’t danced since the Christmas party.”

 

“We don’t dance. Been doing a lot of not-things, though, you an’ me. Not-flirting, not-dancing…”

 

“Not-weddings?”

 

“Yeah,” Hank purred over Connor’s ear. “And repeating words to make a point.  _ Date _ date.  _ Partner _ partner. I bet there’s a word for that.”

 

“It’s called ‘madness’,” Connor supplied, delighted when it made Hank laugh.

 

“You  _ dick _ .”

 

He brushed his fingers over Hank’s neck, unable to keep from smiling. “You want me to tell you the term, or will you call me a damn show off?”

 

“I make no promises. Go on.”

 

“‘Epizeuxis’, from the Greek words for--”

 

“Know-it-all,” Hank interjected, and hugged him closer.

 

Technically speaking he was...not entirely wrong about that. Not linguistically correct by any means, but… “...yes. Well. I don’t know  _ everything _ ...”

 

“Yeah, right. Close enough in my book. Alright, gimme a sample. What  _ don’t  _ you know?”

 

Well, thought Connor, that was easy. “What’s it like? Intercourse? ...making love to someone?”

 

Hank pulled back, giving him a show of some mightily skeptical eyebrow action. He hadn’t expected that one, clearly. But since he asked, Hank wasn’t about to leave him hanging. Connor loved that about him - unless it was an utterly inane question, Hank never seemed to mind. He’d even answer the invasive ones, the borderline ignorant ones, too innocent ones, all of them. “It’s a glorious mess. All limbs and zero dignity, but if you do it right you don’t give a damn.”

 

“That…” Connor could feel his eyebrows pulling together into a frown. “Doesn’t sound too appealing. Or reassuring.”

 

Despite Connor’s obvious dislike of that explanation, Hank simply shook his head with a smile. “It’s part of my master plan. Lower your expectations, so you won’t be too disappointed.”

 

“You--” Connor blinked, agape, before the penny of legends and myths finally dropped. “ _ You! _ Incorrigible--! Don’t make jokes like that!”

 

Hank promised, cross his heart, but Connor didn’t believe one word of it. Truth be told, he wasn’t even sure Hank was joking to begin with.

 

***

 

Throughout the night Lydia mingled with her trusted camera phone, taking snapshots and recording things, as she put it, ‘for posterity’, or as a wedding gift of her own making, for the boys to watch on the six month anniversary of their big day.

 

She had her work cut out for her. From Jeffrey and his daughter having a dance off, to Wilson’s memorable attempt at serenading his work buddy Ben Collins by singing Michael Jackson’s unforgettable  _ Ben _ ; all seven of Spilane’s ever growing troupe (now including Oliver Wilson) doing a decent job of navigating the treacherous waters of singing along to Donna Summer’s  _ Bad Girls _ in a video game where vocalizing flair had little to do with scores, and none of them could dance except Wilson. That said, once Connor figured out the pattern to the dance routines, he blew the competition right out of the water. (Evocative lyrics? No problem. Suggestive dance moves? Piece of cake. Mission objective: kick ass and take names, to quote Captain Fowler). After that point, Nichols was banned from picking the songs; Wilson challenging Connor to try his hand at something completely out of his comfort zone (as they knew it, but Hank knew better), like heavy metal. Something like classic 1980’s metal. Connor and Hank exchanged innocent looks, and then Connor picked Dio’s eternal superhit  _ Holy Diver _ , for an interpretation/collaboration with Hank that was nothing short of inspired (Hank didn’t sing, but he could play air guitar like a  _ god _ ), and had everyone torn between belly-ache laughter and applause; Jessica and her father trying to teach Connor how to move to the beat of J-Lo’s new/old  _ El Anillo _ , which they had unceremoniously dubbed  _ Where My Ring At _ . Because, hello? Pointed look at Hank and Connor both - these modern men and their modern ideas of modern marriage, tut-tut. It became a group effort, everyone doing their best to shake it on the impromptu dance floor, but despite the beat, and the drums and all else, by the end of it neither of the Connors knew exactly  _ why  _ they should know how to shake anything below waistline, but mutually agreed shoulder rolling was kind of fun. For a while it looked like Hank was never going to stop laughing.

 

The evening was slowly coming to a close, the party winding down as everyone was feeling the comforting effects of too much good food and drink and music, and laughter not least of all. Just a few hours though it was, it proved that music and laughter made for the best, universal gelling agent of all, and by the end of it everyone was talking and laughing and dancing together, whether they were android or human, whether they’d know each other half a lifetime or less than five hours in total.

 

One thing was certain: it was a well needed reprieve, a port in the storm that had become the one constant in the life of Fowler’s team. Though Hank was the plaintiff, it concerned them all, and they weren’t out of the woods yet. The storm was still rolling on all around them, but for the moment they knew peace, and the joy of being surrounded by friends and family.


	17. Try Walking in My Shoes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor Mark I feels unexpected pangs of empathy towards a stranger, and an attorney’s line of questioning is shut down. No pun intended, of course. Later on, tree climbing becomes a Thing. Judgment is passed. Connor and Hank both have an a-ha moment or two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only the epilogue left! I feel all sad and blue about it. :( It's been so much fun writing this entire thing. All of it.
> 
> Thank you guys for reading, once again. Expect an update soon. <3

 

* * *

 

When Connor walked up to the courthouse on Monday morning, he knew it was going to be a potentially taxing day - if not for him personally, then for Hank. Neither one of them had slept much at all the night before, having stayed awake for most of it discussing the case and the line of questioning Mercer had run with last Thursday. They’d tried to be objective, look at the case as outside observers, but it was practically impossible. They were too involved, right there in the thick of it, there was no detangling the emotional aspects from the factual. Hank had told him they were too close to the painting to see the full picture, like it was a private joke. Connor didn’t ask why it made him smile so grimly, but made a note of it to ask at a later date. He knew, rationally speaking, that today would be...challenging, that he would be subjected to all manner of scrutiny, intrusive questioning. He could think of no reason why Mercer would change tactics from one court day to another.

 

What he hadn’t taken into consideration, however, was Gavin Reed’s mother crying on the courthouse steps in front of a dozen eager reporters. “--can’t believe he’d do such a thing… My  _ boy _ …”

 

Neither had he expected that when walking into the courtroom right behind Hank and Reyes, that the entire room would go silent, or that all eyes would turn on him like motion detection cameras. Reed’s bald-faced disdain, he could deal with: it was all the other faces looking back at him, staring expectantly, openly, cautious, curious, watchful, concerned - too many emotions for him to decipher and catalogue - that made him want to shiver. He was the object of everyone’s attention, and it filled him with a new-old sense of dread: of being judged by people he didn’t know, who didn’t know him, fear of that judgment reflecting badly on Hank, or the Detroit Police Department. He felt acutely aware of his behavior last time he was here, what a very embarrassing spectacle he’d made of himself. It was completely irrational, but he felt ashamed of himself, not only for completely losing it in a room full of friends and strangers, but... 

 

But who was he to take the stand, to help the judicial system take someone’s son away? From a weeping mother? His mind flashed back to little baby Damian in his arms, to the infinitely proud faces of his parents.

 

Whether he had intended it or not, it could be argued that his actions had brought them all here. His relationship with Detective Reed had been antagonistic from the start, to put it mildly, and the more their paths had crossed the more openly Connor had begun to detest the man. He could be professional, he could take jibes, and threats, and pretend-bullets to the head, but he didn’t have to stay quiet about it. On the other hand, if he hadn’t talked back, if he’d kept his opinions to himself, hadn’t risen to the bait, maybe things wouldn’t have built up to breaking point. Maybe Gavin wouldn’t have exploded like a dirty bomb in the middle of the bullpen.

 

“Connor? Honey?”

 

Hank’s voice pulled him back from his darkened thoughts, and Connor’s eyes zoomed in on his face, those blue eyes he’d come to love. They were big, and bright with worry. Hank had noticed his halting steps. Of course he had noticed.

 

“Do I look that scared?” Connor tried to tease, tried to smirk, though he also knew Hank could see right through his brave face. He closed the gap between them as Hank took his hand. “You only call me Honey when I’m upset.”

 

“Really?” said Hank and smiled, and did a much better job of it, too. “I’ll have to do something about that, then. Come, sit right here. Right behind me.”

 

Captain Fowler was already there, nodding up at them in greeting. Hank squeezed his hand and they each took their seats, and shortly afterwards, Mrs Reed took her place directly behind her only son. Her only child, more accurately.

 

Connor wondered what it felt like to have a mother. The closest he’d come to knowing was Amanda. As she was his handler and his most immediate link to CyberLife, he had looked to her for guidance and direction. He had sought her approval, and felt better for making her proud of him, but whenever she pierced him with her icy gaze, he’d felt very small. Amanda’s love, such as it was, had been anything but unconditional. It had hinged entirely on his obedience and compliance.

 

Of course, that line of thought made him think of another thing: what it was like to have children, a child of his own, and face the consequences of its actions like this. Mrs Reed, Ellen, had a quiet air of dignity about her, even with her bloodshot eyes and puffy nostrils. She’d been knocked down by emotion and crisis, but she was not defeated. Whatever her son was guilty of, she was here now. It was easy to be cynical, to ask ‘Why now?’ but Connor couldn’t see any indication of her having an agenda beyond being here for her son. Her emotions were as genuine as her composure, as he could decipher them. He had learned a lot over the two months he’d worked with Hank and the others. Her face reminded him of that one case that had stuck with him - Matt Peters and his unborn daughter. He recognized the look in Ellen Reed’s eye as that of a parent desperate for their child, but she hadn’t lost hope. All Connor could feel for her in that moment was empathy, despite the actions of her son.

 

...and he had been so angry, just thinking about the morning of December 30 and how his life had changed. He had been preparing himself mentally and emotionally to come in here and fight Gavin’s defense attorney like he had fought the detective himself. He was prepared for slaughter, carnage of the verbal kind: kill or be killed, eat or be eaten, do or die. And he had died once already. His torso hung suspended from the stand along the wall, like he had been not one week ago, in a clear evidence bag, red tape across the top. It was white, with gray panels, nearly invisible fuses, and the borrowed thirium pump regulator in a separate bag hanging from the same stand. You could see right through him, literally. He felt exposed. He felt naked, bared for all to see. It was an irrational response, of course, probably brought on by his rising stress levels with the near future in sight. Carnage. Slaughter, however metaphorical. And yet…

 

He glanced at Gavin’s mother, and caught her eye across the great divide between prosecution and defense. All he could see was pain. No animosity, no disgust, just a tremendous sadness. He decided then and there that though he’d lost what little respect he’d ever had for Detective Reed (it felt like such a long time ago, now, a lifetime ago), he could show this woman the respect she deserved by virtue of being a mother about to lose her child to the mercy of the legal system.

 

Connor averted his eyes, focusing his attention on the baby blue pin fixed to the lapel of his suit jacket (the dark chocolate one, almost black but not quite. Hank jokingly called it the 90% cocoa jacket. Connor struggled to see what was amusing about a 90% cocoa content, or what it had to do with color). Androids were still required by law to wear the blue band on their right-hand sleeve, the blue pyramid symbol on their chest when in public. After the public outcry, the Android Act had lost a lot of its judicial gravitas, as it were. Androids weren’t reported for removing their LEDs, or for wearing plain clothes - deviants all over the country were openly breaking that section of the Act, but arrests rarely led to prosecution… But Connor was here in an official capacity. He couldn’t be called as a witness in a court of law and commit a crime. He was brazen, not stupid: he had a pin stuck to his lapel, a bright blue hair band around his jacket sleeve, thanks to Captain Fowler’s daughter - because he was required by law to wear these markers; he was representing law and order.

 

He doubted he’d ever get to go out with Hank the way they used to - incognito, hiding his LED under a knitted cap, no one but Hank in the know. They were firmly stuck in the scope of the public eye now, and as much as he disliked the attention, as much as having all eyes on him made his skin membrane seem to crawl, he couldn’t stay anonymous. He would stand beside Hank, march beside him (keep him safe from harm, keep him safe, period), be seen, make a statement, make his voice heard… It was becoming increasingly apparent to him that he would need a lot of practice being comfortable among strangers, at the center of attention, but if Hank could do it, so could he. Even if the thought of being watched made him want to idle out and play with his quarter. Nothing soothed him quite like his coin tricks (or the sound of Hank’s steady heartbeat, but he couldn’t spend the rest of the day getting lost in 3D scans of his cardiovascular system), but he had a job to do, as respectful of the court as he could be.

 

Just then, Judge McAllen entered from her chambers.

 

“All rise!”

 

Connor took a deep breath, and adjusted his black tie over his white shirt. Time to get to work.

 

***

 

Monday morning, February 21st 2039, 09:11 AM, Connor Mark I was called as a witness in the case against Detective Gavin Reed, for the second time. He took his place to the left of Judge McAllen, and was sworn in like thousands of witnesses that had gone before him, with his thirium pump racing in his chest. He refused to panic, though he knew there was very likely not much he could do if the stress got the better of him. Markus’ words from the day before echoed in his mind, that he wasn’t crazy, that he just needed time to process everything. It had been almost four days since he was brought out of standby mode, crashing/burning on the floor of this very courtroom - of course he was going to have an emotional stress response to being here. He just hoped he didn’t look too skittish, knowing that nervous tics could be easily misinterpreted as signs of guilt. He had to look presentable, which he knew he did, but he also had to look confident, composed, calm - or the jury would dismiss his testimony. He had to be credible, or he could damage the case. That was the last thing he wanted to do, after everything he and Hank had been through (after everything Hank had been put through).

 

Hank sat opposite, next to Reyes, wearing one of his crazy-patterned shirts, effectively breaking his court suit habits. No more white shirts, he’d said. He was sick of them, he said, but Connor suspected there was another reason why Hank’s court shirt had disappeared from the laundry basket. It was too much of a reminder of death for both of them. The black-and-white striped shirt he wore now was one of Connor’s least favorite, but just the sight of it made him feel better. Hank watched the proceedings, locking eyes with Connor as he was sworn in, and Hank smiled behind his hand, fingers curled over his mouth and his eyes positively glowing. Connor allowed himself to meet that smile halfway, if only for a moment. He wasn’t going to let himself be distracted by the magnetism of any particular set of irises this time around. They weren’t going anywhere. Hank was right there waiting, and he would still be there after all was said and done, regardless of the outcome. And he couldn’t let Hank see just how uncomfortable he was, or things might get...awkward. Of all the c-words in the collected vocabularies of the world, the last one he wanted to be right now was ‘clingy’.

 

Oath and bible done away with, Judge McAllen made very clear to all assembled that she would not tolerate just anything - no antics, crazy or otherwise, on anyone’s part. As for Connor, unique as his circumstances were, he was verified to be the same Connor as before, memories intact, fit to serve as a witness to the events of December 30th, 2038. Connor provided confirmation, letting the bailiff scan his face for his serial number, answering a battery of control questions until the court was satisfied. Connor Mark II sat behind Captain Fowler, eyes scanning the room for any eventual threats, however unlikely. Connor could tell by the microscopic stops and starts of his successor’s eyes. It’s what he would’ve done, if their roles were reversed.

 

“I am at the court’s disposal,” Connor told the judge, but looked at the jury, much as he did last time, with a few noteworthy differences. He sat there with perfect composure and clarity of thought, perhaps not ramrod straight as he used to be, but like a military man: impeccable posture, at attention. His LED blipped every now and then unseen by the jury, a constant yellow. It was, for all intents and purposes, just another day at the office. He had never served as a witness before, aside from his last disastrous attempt, but he was set on doing the best job he could with the tools at his disposal. He had Mark II’s memories to guide him. He had reviewed them very carefully last night, wanting to come prepared not only as far as his own mission objective, but he was particularly interested in the lead defense attorney, Alexander Mercer. He was a shrewd one, bright, not only interested in monetary gains. From his records, Connor deduced he had some redeeming qualities, despite evidence to the contrary: he made an effort to find at least some extent of compassion for his clients, he did his utmost to do what was best for them, whether they then decided to listen to him or not. He rarely turned down anyone, for lack of anything but time, and he’d represented people accused of the most reprehensible crimes. Of course, as Connor had seen through Mark II’s eyes throughout the trial, this in no way meant Mercer was a kind man, though he believed everyone had a right to a skilled attorney. He was manipulative, he played dirty, and if he could catch a witness off guard, he would use it to his advantage. Connor had no doubt he would continue down the same path with him, that last Thursday was par for the course no matter who Mercer represented.

 

“Connor. Mark One,” said Mercer, charming like a komodo dragon - or less charming. Connor rather liked komodo dragons, though he’d never met one in person. “Or should that be Mr Anderson? I hear congratulations are in order, and welcome back. It’s good to see you’re fully restored.”

 

Connor refrained from frowning - ‘ _ Mr Anderson? _ ’ Was that supposed to be a jab of some sort? “My name is Connor. That will do fine. Thank you,” he said, palms clasped in his lap, then turned to look at Judge McAllen. “Judge… If I may, I’d like to rectify a previous statement I made, to clarify matters for the court.”

 

McAllen looked him in the eye, and he could have sworn he could see the cogs of her mind turning. His request was unorthodox, but so was his very presence. This entire court case was an anomaly. It couldn’t be an easy task, presiding over a trial like this. Nevertheless, she inclined her chin, watching him even more intently. “Go on…”

 

He nodded the once, and turned to the jury. Suddenly all the words seemed stuck in his throat. He should be formal, he was in a formalized context, he should speak accordingly, but he could hear Hank’s rasping voice somewhere far away, telling him to speak English. More English, less Machine. He didn’t know how to proceed. He had to decide. “I-I…”

 

Twelve sets of eyes looking straight back at him, assessing him, weighing his every word, his every move, every sliver of micro-expression on his face. His lips folded inward, he breathed in through his nose. “When Mercer asked me about bringing coffee to Detective Reed, I said I complied with… I said I brought him coffee because he asked me to. I misspoke. I brought him a cup of coffee because he ordered me to, and I felt obliged to do as I was told. Our first meeting ended on a bad note, and I wanted to be on my best behavior. I default to polite compliancy when I’m unsure how to proceed in social situations. I didn’t want to make things worse than they already were.”

 

He could positively  _ hear _ Mercer rolling his eyes, and the jury didn’t look too convinced either; Connor wondered if he had made the right choice. He cleared his throat, and thanked the judge for the leeway.

 

“Oh-kay, then.” Mercer stepped forward, eyebrows slanted in what could only be called condescending. He had the face of the long-suffering human dealing with an android who just didn’t know better. “Thank you for the clarification, Connor. So, basically, you’re saying you lied to the court? Don’t you have some built-in  _ protocol _ preventing you from telling lies?”

 

“That’s absurd.” Connor found himself looking to Hank for some sort of non-verbal cue as to how he should respond. Hank shook his head -  _ Don’t go there _ written clearly across his face. “I was dying. I  _ misspoke _ . But, no, I don’t have protocols preventing me from lying. I’m-- just not very good at it, generally speaking.”

 

“Nice save, but not very reassuring - CyberLife’s most advanced investigative model working with Detroit’s  _ finest _ , and it can’t even dissemble? I would’ve  _ loved  _ to watch you at work.”

 

“Objection! Harassing the witness!”

 

And so it went on, with Mercer taking stabs at Connor’s character every chance he got whether it was relevant to the case or not. His aim seemed to be to discredit Connor to the point of obliterating his reputation - as a detective android, as an awakened deviant, as someone who had made highly questionable decisions while under immense pressure. The courtroom became a No Man’s Land of volleys fired and ducked - Reyes objected where she could, but for the most part Mercer stayed within the barbed confines of court warfare. His questions were invasive, private, delving into things that had nothing to do with Connor’s interactions with Gavin, but always insinuating things, hinting at what was  _ really _ behind his office romance with Lieutenant Anderson, why they had  _ rushed off _ to City Hall to ‘get married’ (Mercer said it like it was a bad joke, air quotes and all, and Reed sat in his chair, snorting with low, derisive chuckles). Every single time Reyes asked for relevance, Mercer backed down, apologizing but knowing he’d implanted little seeds of doubt in the minds of the jury.

 

Connor had decided to sit there, respectful of the court, to conduct himself with honor and poise, but every question that he didn’t get to answer thoroughly enough seemed to chip away at his composure, until he didn’t even know what he was feeling. Was he angry or sad? Furious? Offended or humiliated? All of the above? Possibly that and more besides that he didn’t have words for, and he sat there with his sensors telling him he was blushing nearly as red as his LED. In five short minutes, he was reduced to absolutely  _ nothing _ .

 

By Mercer’s rhetoric, he was a flawed machine that made the wrong decisions both as an investigator and as a person (if he could even be called a person at all), he was someone, some thing that couldn’t see the forest for all the trees and couldn’t take the rejection of a love interest without lashing out in the strangest ways - the penis measuring contest was brought up again, as well as the sexual harassment complaint, the so-called relationship with Anderson (ridiculed without so much as a word from Mercer, just a pointed, slow, lingering look moving between him and Detective Reed, as if it was obvious which of the two was the better catch just by visual comparison) - it was humiliating, in ways Connor had never been subjected to before. At the Christmas party he’d asked Hank if he was willing to face prejudice and discrimination, and Hank had said he’d risk it for having him in his life. But sitting there, Connor wasn’t so sure about it himself anymore. Imagining being the target of someone’s abuse was one thing, and living it was something completely different, something he was utterly unprepared for. He was built for physical altercations, not verbal abuse, and Mercer was calling everything into question, up to and including Connor’s supposed asexuality.

 

“--and how can you  _ sexually harass _ an asexual  _ machine _ ? How is that even possible?!”

 

Connor felt like he was suffocating. It was Thursday all over again: he couldn’t get air enough down his lungs, even if he didn’t need the air to breathe, it was like all the air was being slowly replaced by building panic, like a vacuum expanding in his chest cavity. Mercer picked up his glass of water for a sip, and Connor saw his chance and took it. He could panic later. He was a rational, logical being. He didn’t have to succumb to his own stress responses, he  _ had work to do _ .

 

“I was anatomically incorrect,” he said, measured and calm on the outside, his fingers clasped very tightly in his lap. “Not asexual. I am a machine, but I also have feelings. I have needs and desires of my own just like anyone else. I have personal integrity. If a co-worker continues to make remarks as to my character or my physical appearance, or my intelligence - despite my objections, I will eventually bypass my default politeness and talk back. I chose to stay quiet when Detective Reed tried to bully me, but that doesn’t mean I am stupid, and the more fed up I got, the more I spoke up against him. When I referred to my ‘relationship’ with him as a bromance, that was not to be taken literally. If the detective and Mr Mercer struggle with such basic concepts as sarcasm, perhaps they need an update to their social interaction protocols.”

 

“Oh, for God’s sake, Judge McAllen…” Mercer nearly rolled his eyes again, so ludicrous did he find the statement. “What is this, a lecture on the intricacies of android  _ feelings _ ? Did I hurt your feelings, Mr Anderson? Or is that  _ Mrs _ ?”

 

“It’s  _ Detective _ ,” Connor shot back, cold as ice.

 

“Alright, simmer down, and no more of that  _ nonsense _ , Mercer,” said the judge, but gestured for Connor to go on, just the same. “Stick to the facts, okay, Connor? It’s easy to let your emotions get the better of you, but we are examining what happened - not what’s going on in the here and now. Don’t let the present affect you too much.”

 

Connor nodded, regrouping quickly. He knew he had to be brief, and concise, or this would be over before he could get his point across. “I don’t pretend that my behavior was in any way appropriate, when-- when I made remarks about Detective Reed’s private parts, but I was feeling cornered.  I felt confident that I could give back as good as he was-- dishing out. I had just begun courting Lieutenant Anderson, and the detective’s sexual slurs hit much closer to home than they had, previously.”

 

“For  _ fuck’s sake _ , Connor!” Hank barked from the plaintiff’s table, ready to explode in a cloud of radioactive frustration, much like he had on that morning in December. He had been getting increasingly agitated, understandably so, but no one could have foreseen the next words out of his mouth. “This is not the time for diplomacy! He called you a  _ spunk guzzler _ in front of the whole team! It’s on fuckin’  _ CCTV _ !”

 

The entire room fell silent, save for the shocked gasps and chortles from jury and spectators. No one knew quite how to react, and human nature tended to go for embarrassed laughter when in doubt. It was ludicrous, it was kind of funny, knowing the context. And yet, it couldn’t be less amusing. For the space of 2.67 seconds, no one said a word. Connor was the first to find his voice, with Mercer’s suddenly shrill voice close behind. “Hank _, please_!”

 

“ _ Objection _ !! Judge McAllen, what in the  _ world _ \--”

 

“You brought this on yourself, Mercer, don’t look so appalled. Overruled. Reyes, do something about your client. Did you have anything more to say, Connor? Say it quick, or people will start fainting from all this excitement.”

 

Connor feared he’d never stop blushing. His hands had started shaking despite how hard he clenched them. “I was never designed for, for flirtation, or any kind of romantic involvement. Yes, I was supposed to blend into any kind of investigative team, to be able to work with a variety of personalities, but office romances?” He shook his head.

 

“I wouldn’t notice if someone was flirting with me even if human lives depended on it. I’m terrible at it, Hank’s--” he glanced at his partner, hesitating at what word to use and settling on the plain truth of it. “-- _ terrible _ . Ask anyone at the station, we’re hopeless! But it works for us, because...I know that’s what it is. His jokes, my attempts at interesting trivia. I’m...still learning. But-- I wouldn’t mistake someone being polite or friendly with me for some sort of sexual interest, I don’t view the world that way, I don’t--  _ think _ like that. But I know open hostility when I see it. I recognize animosity. It’s how I was designed, to deal with threatening situations. I would  _ never _ mistake a gun pointed at my head for some sort of sexual overture, or a display of romantic interest under the guise of human bonding rituals. And you can’t have it both ways - either I’m too socially inept and too stupid to realize what I’m doing, or I’m a master manipulator who toys with human emotion.

 

“Quite frankly, I’m more disturbed by the defense saying that my being polite and accommodating was so threatening to Detective Reed’s self image that his only way forward was to ‘reject me’ with increasingly degrading slurs. He is so mentally scarred that he…” Connor allowed himself a grim smile, taking a leaf out of Mercer’s book by letting his eyes go from Gavin’s curled lip and lowered eyebrows to across the room, to settle on Hank. His lieutenant. His human. His partner. Husband. Love.

 

“...he shoots Lieutenant Anderson three times in the torso, with the intent to, what? Show me who’s in charge? All  _ he  _ did was stand up for me. You’ve reviewed my memory bank, the rest of the evidence. You’ve heard witnesses. That’s what’s relevant here. Mercer’s narrative is an illogical mess from start to finish, and  _ he knows it _ . We  _ all _ know it.”

 

Connor wasn’t proud of himself for his lapse in composure or dignity, but it was worth it to see Mercer’s right eye twitch as if his brain was ready to explode from overheating. 

 

Mercer’s objections fell on deaf ears, but Judge McAllen asked the jury to disregard Connor’s punchline. All witnesses had been called and heard by the court, all evidence reviewed and scrutinized to within an inch of itself, including a brief accounting for Connor’s torso having been brought back from the bodyshop. Closing arguments were made, the jury sequestered for deliberations, the court adjourned. All they had to do now was wait for the outcome, whatever it may be.

 

***

 

Outside the courthouse, Mercer ruled supreme, acting bodyguard and knight in shining armor to the grieving mother for all and sundry to see. He gave confident statements to the press, while angry demonstrators chanted viciously in the background, waving banners in the air. Some were pro-Gavin, most were anti-android. Mercer was having a field day, while Reyes took one good look outside and showed her client and his friends through one of the side exits. She was confident, saying that Mercer was just puffing up his feathers. It was only a matter of time now, before they had a verdict. His stunt, calling Connor as a witness wouldn’t win him any favors from the jury or the judge. Everyone wanted to believe her, but doubt hovered over them all like a cloud bringing heavy rain.

 

The drive home was filled with a depressive, dark quiet. Connor was at the wheel, keeping his eyes on the traffic, not once looking at Hank, but Hank couldn’t take his eyes off of him.

 

“I’m so proud of you,” he said, quiet enough to match the silence between them, but just loud enough to be heard. “The way you handled yourself, no matter what that bastard threw in your face. I couldn’t have done half of it, I don’t know how you stayed so calm. It was magnificent.”

 

Connor’s mouth twitched, his eyes glancing Hank’s way. “My hands wouldn’t stop shaking towards the end. I couldn’t keep my heart from racing. It still is, I… It feels like I’m shaking on the inside. I’m surprised it didn’t show. I was so torn-- between being completely mortified and then thinking Mercer doesn’t know the first thing about me and his opinions don’t matter at all. He was spinning a yarn that had nothing to do with facts.”

 

Hank took a deep breath, brushing his hand down Connor’s arm in a there-and-gone-again show of same-boat-edness. They were in this thing together, to the end, come what may. “We’ve done everything we can. If the jury’s half as smart as it looked, they’ll see through his smoke and mirrors and focus on the facts of the case.”

 

Connor nodded, shoulders lowering incrementally. The sight made Hank feel instantly better. About everything. “We’ve done everything we can,” Connor echoed the sentiment, and when their eyes met there was a new glow to them that Hank couldn’t quite put his finger on, other than that it was a thing of beauty.

 

“Now we just have to wait.”

 

That knowledge filled him with a sense of peaceful bliss that lasted the ride home and through the short smattering of questions by the press outside their house, and he even found a smile for the reporters as he told them to get the Hell off his lawn and go away. It was a tiny smile, but all the same. It was out of their hands, they’d done what they could. He felt like he was wrapped up in cotton wool, disconnected but completely focused at the same time. He was just about ready to crash (because what was his life coming to, really? It had been a horrible day so far, just like every day in court this year and he. Had. Had it.), but not before he had another cup of coffee. He toed off his boots by the door, squirmed out of his coat and left it on the rack, then greeted Sumo, who was more interested in his afternoon nap thankyouverymuch than paying anyone much attention. He hummed as he went over to the coffee machine, that old American gospel that he had come to find so personally poignant - everything would be alright, everything, if he could just hold on long enough - perhaps he was a teeny bit off key, but he’d never said he could sing. He could hum, though. Coffee or tea. What a dilemma -  _ everything will be alright, everything will be.. _ .

 

As it turned out, the decision was made for him, and it turned out to be neither. Connor’s strong arms closed around him from behind, hugging him firm and close, and before Hank could say Left Field, Connor’s mouth left hot little kisses through his shirt, working its way up above the collar. The first brush of lips to skin was electric, but the anticipation was even worse. His mind flashed back to those early, innocent days of December, when Connor had asked him out as a means of eff-ing  _ courtship _ , and just hearing his voice used to make Hank’s heart dance in his chest.

 

“...Honey?” He turned his head, turned around, a smile ready on his lips, but what he saw made the smile melt away like butter on too hot toast. Connor’s pupils were completely blown; inky dark depths of desire so deep Hank could sink right into them, all six-foot-two-inches of him.

 

“Don’t call me honey. I’m not scared, I’m not upset, but I, I just-- I don’t care what Mercer said, or the demonstrators, but I-- I...”

 

Maybe Connor had come a long way in terms of expressing his own wishes, or wants/needs, but it wasn’t always easy for him. Having been conditioned by CyberLife’s technicians to think his opinions and thoughts were of lower priority to those of his superiors, he didn’t always take for granted that his voice would be heard - but Hank was all ears, perked up and eager for more. He breathed in deep, and watched as Connor lifted his eyes from breastbone level up to his face. The familiar, welcome light of determination shone through his eyes. So that’s what he’d seen on the drive home. Connor had made up his mind. Whatever that meant, Hank was about to find out.

 

“I w-... I want you. I want to kiss you. I want you to look at me like you can’t look away no matter how hard you try. I want to know there’s nothing wrong with loving you. I want-- I don’t know what I want, exactly, I-- I just--watched you move through the house right now and I want to  _ climb you like a tree _ ,” said Connor with a voice like crushed velvet, and Hank’s knees nearly buckled right then and there. “I’m not even sure what that means.”

 

“That shouldn’t sound sexy,” Hank protested weakly, stunned, hands running up the sides of Connor’s lovely spine. “Not at all.”

 

Whether it was the tone of his voice or what he said, Hank didn’t know which, but it made Connor straighten up. His neck seemed to lengthen, or grow, like his confidence. “But it does?”

 

“It does. Dunno how. Possibly magic.”

 

Connor tilted his head, lip curling into something of a more mischievous nature, more like his old self again (Hank thought he could fall head over heels all over again, just from that head tilt). “I want to climb you like a big, tall, _old_ _oak tree_.”

 

“Make that ancient,” Hank grinned, and pulled his beloved jackass closer, nice and flush and snug, to kiss his chuckling, happy face. “You could read the goddamn  _ phone book _ with that voice and make me all weak at the knees.”

 

“The phone book? As in the printed register? Didn’t they stop issuing those-” another head tilt, “-twenty years ago?”

 

“ _ Heyyy _ . Shut it, already.”

 

Connor obliged, kissed him, shut him up good (though Hank had meant it the other way around and they both knew it) with a string of kisses, deep ones, soft ones, greedy kisses, running his fingers over the stubble that crept down Hank’s neck, and up again through his beard, further up to comb through his hair - and something snapped like a rubber band somewhere deep inside Hank. His mind flashed back to all those kisses they shared in December, when Connor’s fingers brushed through his beard and sent tingles all over his scalp. It felt like December all over again, before the bad times, before the shit hit the fan and he couldn’t do anything about it; it felt like those precious, uplifted, spontaneous moments, kisses stolen or traded at work, when no one saw them but the CCTV, kisses in Hank’s bedroom, on his couch...just inside his front door, with the deep, vivid evergreen scarf doing something amazing to Connor’s face. Hank moaned into Connor’s mouth, against his lips, pulling him in like a magnet, both of them stumbling towards the bedroom.

 

It was desire, pure and simple, and though it was just as he remembered it, it felt different. It was more intense, it went deeper, sinking into the very core of him until he could think of nothing else but how much he wanted Connor, had wanted him since the first time they kissed, since before. Nothing else mattered beyond this point. Nothing. Just Connor, just kissing him, kissing him all over his face and his neck and his chest, until he couldn’t keep from moaning.

 

The bedroom door closed behind them with a rattling bang, and all Hank had the presence of mind left for while Connor’s hands moved over his body and clothes went flying was to think how  _ stupid _ they had both been to wait - or, him, mostly, he had been such an  _ idiot  _ not to see how much Connor wanted him, how stressed he’d been about everything, and now that he’d got the proverbial green light all bets were off and he was racing towards a cliff in the distance fully prepared to throw himself off the edge and  _ fly _ . It was dizzying just to be in the presence of all that energy, all that  _ want _ .

 

They tumbled into bed, naked limbs tangling with bed covers and sheets, mouths and hands going wherever they could reach. To use Connor’s deceptively innocent euphemism, he climbed Hank like a big old oak tree. Less innocently put, he rode him like a beast, until Hank kissed his breathless mouth and told him “Easy, easy…” and led the way forward.

 

***

 

It wasn’t until he lay there on his side leaning into Hank’s solid body, with strong arms around him and Hank’s hand between his legs that Connor realized what he’d meant about pegs and holes of varying shapes: sex was its own kind of Gestalt. There was so much more to it than the sum of its parts. So much more.

 

Hank touched him, and kissed him, and rocked with him, tangled in the sheets, until Connor started making noises that shouldn’t be physically possible according to any universal laws as he understood them, until he moved, and shook, his body responding completely autonomously, completely outside the realms of his own control. It was deeply disturbing, but Hank held him, growling filthy-sweet things, obscene things in his ear the whole time he couldn’t stop shaking, drowning in sensory overload, too much input with nowhere to go: something building in his circuitry, spreading throughout his system like a cascade failure - but  _ good _ , a cascade takeover, where everything slotted into place so hard he couldn’t verbalize how singularly overwhelming it felt. He grabbed on to the back of Hank’s head, held on tight, fistful of hair to keep him grounded.

 

It was everything Hank had said it would be. It was a tangle of limbs, of fumbling, sweaty bodies coming together in an undignified heap; it was messy. It was glorious. Hank’s voice in his ear, broken from desire, torn with pain and pleasure, saying “Jesus!  _ Fuck--! _ ” cursing, breath over his skin, hot like fire, clinging to his body, hands slipping over his skin. The sounds of their bodies moving together, Hank’s heart pounding like a hammer in Connor’s audio receptors. It was the most erotic thing he’d ever heard.

 

Covered in Hank’s sweat, drowning in his desire, Connor had never felt so perfect in his entire life.

 

***

 

The afternoon was spent in bed, with sleep and love intermingling at uneven intervals. They kissed, and held each other, and touched one another with a lazy, luxuriating ease that was completely detached from the pressures of the outside world. Time ceased to exist within the four walls of their bedroom, and anything outside of the perimeters of the bedframe seemed inconsequential. To continue the metaphor, they climbed all over each other over the course of that afternoon and only emerged much later in the evening. They shared a shower, at which time Hank told Connor not to get any ideas, as shower sex was only ever sexy in movies and video games - and even that was a matter of debate. Connor promised he only got in with Hank because he felt a bit clingy and territorial - he wanted to be covered in his sweat, smell like him forever. Hank made a frowny face, groaning low. “Nooooo. Not gonna happen. Cute, but no.  _ No _ .” Connor was not gonna smell like spunk and sweat no matter how much he loved it.

 

They took Sumo for a walk, Connor holding the lead like he’d done so a million times, while Hank smiled, happy to see his puppy could behave for once and not run off at the first sign of adventure. They came back home without incident, after a quick stop at a vegan deli that Hank said made the best vegan pastrami outside of New York (thank you, Eric, for the tip). If he had to eat healthy, it had to be amazing, and in his not-so-humble opinion this was pure gold. Connor didn’t make comment, just happy to see Hank make different choices from before and enjoying himself at the same time.

 

They shared dinner; Hank munching away on his all vegan pastrami sandwich with pickled veggies and mayo, Connor dipping his finger into said mayo for the same reasons he sampled Hank’s porridge, and Sumo begging for morsels as if he hadn’t eaten for the past month. As stressful as the day had begun, it sure turned into a little slice of domestic bliss. Just two lovers enjoying some downtime with their pup.

 

They stayed up watching Star Wars until Hank couldn’t keep his eyes open, and the next morning Hank woke up to an empty bed and the smell of coffee wafting in through the open bedroom door. He got out of bed, pulled one of his trusted old hooded sweaters over his head and padded out barefoot to see what was going on. He could hear Connor before he caught sight of him, the comforting sounds of someone puttering about in the kitchen, humming.

 

Hank smiled, recognizing the song as the one that had become his constant companion, playing at the back of his mind whenever he felt like he couldn’t go on anymore.  _ Everything will be alright _ .

 

He walked up to his love, his very own Connor, and wrapped his arms around him from behind. Connor knew he was there, of course. It was nigh impossible to catch him off guard. “Good morning, babe,” he murmured, leaning his chin on his shoulder. Connor turned to nuzzle his forehead. “Whatcha doin’?”

 

“Making breakfast. Oats and water in the pot, blipping away, apples diced and ready, coffee brewing - I love the sputtering noises the coffee machine makes, have I told you that? Just when I think I can discern a pattern, it changes. It’s lovely.”

 

“Huh... I’ll have to pay more attention next time we make a fresh pot.” The wonders of the world, as viewed by an android… It gave Hank an idea, much like Connor’s fascination with cinnamon. “When this is over, there’s somewhere I want to take you. Whatever the verdict, whenever, we’re going. Okay?”

 

“I would ask where, but I think I’ll let you surprise me,” Connor teased him. “Okay.”

 

They looked at each other, sharing quiet smiles. Hank shifted his arms around Connor, wrapping him up more firmly, and breathed deep into the crook of his neck and shoulder.

 

Breakfast was a quiet affair once Hank had gone through his morning routine, and it was over quick when Sumo woke up and demanded his first walk of the day. Hours went by in a deafening kind of silence in which all the sounds of the world were muted. Neither one of them said much, or did much. As confident as Hank had felt the previous day, it turned out waiting to hear from Reyes was the hardest part of the entire trial. Everything was put on hold, and that moment of shared bliss they shared before breakfast was the only glimmer of light in the dark. Hank paced the living room like a mechanical animal in a cage, and Connor let Sumo rest his big head in his lap for a cuddle, telling him everything would be okay. It had been over twenty-four hours since the jury was locked away in their own microcosm, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Maybe someone was just being thorough, wanting to go through everything. Maybe it wasn’t such an open and shut case as they’d thought, but surely...

 

Just when Hank thought he couldn’t take it anymore, that he was going to start pulling out his own hair by the roots, go completely insane with impatience-- his phone rang. Reyes on the other end, saying the jury was back. It was time to head back to court.

 

***

 

January 22, 2039, the jury came back with a unanimous verdict: Gavin Reed was found guilty as charged, and the presiding juror went on to explain that while they could appreciate that the destructive professional relationship between the plaintiff and the defendant may not have been the sole cause for the events of December 30, they were of the opinion that whatever Detective Reed felt or indeed didn’t feel for androids in general or Connor Mark I in particular, was inconsequential. What they were tasked to do was decide whether or not Detective Reed had shot Lieutenant Anderson with the intent to kill or do great bodily harm, and the evidence presented left them with only one way forward.

 

The courtroom was so quiet you could’ve heard a pin drop. It was as if no one in the entire room could remember to breathe, whether they were human or android. Connor sat right behind Hank, a hand on his shoulder in silent support; Fowler on his right hand side, Connor Mark II on his left. Markus and the others were further back, nearer to the exit but close enough to act if necessary. Hank’s heart was hammering in his chest, the sound loud in Connor’s ears even without his 3D scans active. It told Connor he wasn’t the only one waiting for the other shoe to drop. It somehow didn’t matter that the verdict was in, that it was done, it didn’t seem to penetrate the fog of terror surrounding everyone involved. Irrational fear, Connor was beginning to understand, was a powerful thing: not only did he fear that the judge would let Reed off easy, but what if he had a concealed weapon (it could’ve been smuggled into the courtroom by any one of the protesters, for instance, something homemade, undetected by courthouse security scanners), what if someone else had a weapon (his mother? Connor felt like the worst possible human being for even considering it, but he had to. It’s how he was programmed from the start: everyone’s a suspect until proven otherwise. Or one of the people outside, chanting about Human Rights for Humans)? It could be anything from a ballistic weapon to an IED, and the thought positively terrified him.

 

Judge McAllen took the pad from her bailiff, scrolling through the notes presented by the jury, set it down in front of her, and interlaced her fingers very neatly, until her hands resembled a woven basket. She took a deep breath, opened her mouth, and for a moment that seemed to last forever, she didn’t say a thing.

 

She inclined her head, and looked between the plaintiff and the defendant, and let out the tiniest puffs of air before addressing the courtroom. “Terry Pratchett, one of the greatest writers of our time in my opinion, held a fascination for what has become one of the most chilling references to contemporary American society to date. It’s supposedly a curse of Chinese origins. Like Mr Pratchett, I can’t speak for its authenticity, but I find myself fascinated nonetheless, especially given the political climate of late... It goes ‘May you live in interesting times… May you come to the attention of those in authority, and may the Gods give you everything you ask for.’”

 

Her dark gray eyes cast a wide net across the room, catching everyone’s attention. “It sounds like a blessing, doesn’t it? It foreshadows a darkness that you can’t see for all the ambition clouding your judgment. Some would say the androids are at fault for these…’interesting times’ we’re living in, that all the civil unrest is a direct consequence of the human ambition to create artificial life. Artificial intelligence running rampant, demanding basic human rights… That humanity itself and Detroit in particular has come to the attention of those in authority, and God is giving us what we asked for.”

 

She shook her head. “From what I have observed over the course of this trial, however irrelevant to the actual case it may be... like his fellow androids, Connor Mark I-- and Mark II, carried himself with dignity and composure. He has earned the respect of his fellow officers of the Detroit Police. Like his fellow androids, he has acted in a consistently non-aggressive manner...opting for a polite default, perhaps, unless the situation called for a different approach.

 

“This is a highly irregular trial,” she went on to say. “I don’t think I’ve seen so many smoke screens coming from the defense in well over twenty years, which makes me wonder if there is a risk of setting a precedent. If Connor Mark I had been a biologically human colleague, would I have viewed this case differently? Perhaps. No one is without prejudice, no matter our aspirations. As it stands, I find it hard to see why anyone would be so provoked by one individual that they then fire a gun at another simply for intervening in an argument gone too far. The facts remain, that Detective Gavin Reed shot Lieutenant Anderson with the intent to do great bodily harm, or to kill. However...given the overwhelming insistence from the defense, that if not for the presence of androids, Detective Reed would never have been driven to such extremes, there really is only one way forward, for all of us. The defendant has come to the attention of those in authority, and I am duty bound to act accordingly.”

 

“Detective Gavin Reed. You have been found guilty of the charges laid against you, and you are hereby sentenced to 25 years in prison, eligible for parole after having served ten years, during which time you will undergo mandatory therapy to help you deal with your aversion towards androids, as well as anger management therapy. After you have served your sentence, you shall be prohibited from owning any kind of firearm, from purchasing and, or, registering firearms for personal use, and from taking employment where you are required to use a firearm as part of your duties.”

 

Beyond that point, Connor couldn’t hear a thing. Everything faded into a blur of white noise. Hank seemed to sag in his chair, as if his legs wouldn’t carry him despite the fact he was already seated. Somewhere far away the judge brought the gavel down with a resounding bang, and the room went up in a cacophony of sound, outrage and grief and overjoyed relief all at once.

 

It was over. It was finally over. Hank stood up, pale as the driven snow outside, a thin film of sweat on his face. He looked twice his age, just from the release of tension. “I think I’m going to pass out,” he whispered, pressing his trembling hand over his eyes.

 

“Okay. Deep breaths, Hank,” Connor said, calm, taking his arm, leading him out of the courtroom. Fowler pressed his arm; the others followed close behind. “Let’s go.”

 

***

 

Once again, Hank found himself bent over the sink in one of the courthouse restrooms, coughing up bile and not much else. He couldn’t stop shaking, he felt too warm and freezing at the same time, and not even Connor’s steady hand brushing back and forth below his shoulder blades made him feel any better.

 

The verdict didn’t feel like a victory. In ten years’ time, Reed would be eligible for having his sentence reduced - Hank would be 63 years old by then, Reed 46. It seemed both like a waste of governmental resources to put the guy through _therapy_ _for ten years_ , expecting him to change, and like too small a price to pay. Ten years to rehabilitate him, and then he could be let out of prison… It was a system Hank could stand up for any day of the week, but short changed seeing it from the plaintiff side of things. Ten years from now, he could be looking over his shoulder every five minutes, expecting the worst: would Gavin have changed, or at least owned up to his actions, or would he bide his time just waiting for the first chance he got to finish the job? Or worse, would he make Connor the target of some form of twisted revenge? Or, would he actually have learned something, would he be too grateful to be let out to risk going back inside? Ten years seemed like such a long time, and it felt like no time at all. 

 

At the same time, shitty though he felt, physically speaking, it was as if a weight had lifted from Hank’s shoulders. No more court days, no more long hours sitting in that chair, listening to legal jargon and watching the jury for any clue as to what they were thinking. He wouldn’t have to step foot in that courtroom again, wouldn’t have to find himself staring at that spot on the floor where Connor died in a state of complete panic and helplessness. He felt free. Free to go back to his life, look forward to things again, like going back to work, like maybe actually listening to his physical therapist and getting his butt in gear-- get healthy again, like he was five years ago, maybe. He could get back into shape, sort of, once he had recovered. For the first time in weeks now, since he woke up January 1 or 2, he felt eager to get back into things. Not out of a sense of obligation or duty or loyalty, to Connor or his fellow androids, but for  _ his own sake _ . He had a life to get back to, and he wasn’t facing it alone.

 

Hank rinsed his mouth, splashed some cold water over his clammy face, and looked himself in the mirror; Connor looked back at him. He wasn’t facing this alone. They had a life to get back to, and Hank made a promise he intended to keep. He took a deep breath, in through his nose, out his mouth, slowly.

 

“Alright. Okay. There’s somewhere I need to take you.”

 

***

 

For the first time in almost two months, Hank took the wheel, telling Connor to keep his eyes closed for the entire drive, no questions asked, “And don’t use any GPS tracking shit either. No cheating.”

 

Connor obliged, on the one condition that he get to pick the music for the drive to wherever they were going. As had become par for the course when Hank tried guessing what was Connor’s flavor of the week/day/hour, he was sorely mistaken - it wasn’t Dio, or Cher, or any of the classic crooners he  _ knew _ Connor loved like there was no tomorrow. It wasn’t the Scorpions, or Journey, or even the Platters. No, the flavor of the day was all about the music of Hank’s childhood, it seemed, starting with a-ha’s  _ Take on Me _ , the volume turned up until the entire car thrummed with the bassline, the lyrics belted out word for word at the top of Connor’s impressive lungs. Hank didn’t stop grinning the entire drive to their destination, and Connor kept his word and didn’t peek a single time.

 

Once there, Hank reminded Connor not to open his eyes, just sit tight, and then came around the passenger side and opened the door for him. They had a short walk ahead of them, over slippery ice and snow covering the sidewalk, but they made it there in one piece, even if Hank very nearly ended up on his ass at one point. Connor gave a startled whoop for the first time in his life, but when they both stayed upright it shifted to laughter that rang like chimes through the streets, bright and happy.

 

And then, there they were. Hank hugged Connor’s arm closer, squeezed his hand, told him to open his eyes.

 

Connor blinked at the storefront,  _ The Java _ printed on the glass door in a vivacious green - and below it, their own take on the No Androids Allowed sign that had plagued the city since the Android Act was passed. Instead of the red and blue, theirs was green and white, the No crossed over. Androids Allowed. Plain and simple.

 

“...that’s new,” said Connor, recognizing the place but too stunned to make the connection as to why they were here.

 

“Yeah.” Hank took the lead inside, smiled at the kid by the register, and ordered two cups of coffee and a bagel. Cream cheese, lox, extra greens; Connor drifted into the coffee shop as if he was walking on fluffy clouds. By the time Hank had paid for his lunch practically everyone in there was staring. There was no escaping the celebrity factor, but as far as being recognized by everyone and their auntie, Hank had made peace with all the fuss. He tried looking everyone in the eye with a smile of greeting, a hi here, hello there, but his focus was on Connor - at the back of the shop, seated at the same booth as on their first date. Back to the wall, fingers drumming over the pristine white edge of the table.

 

“Don’t tell me,” teased Hank. “You really are going sentimental on me. That’s our table.”

 

Connor looked up at him, his eyes crisp and clear, not a hint of schmoopy sentiment to them. “It’s the most strategic vantage point in the entire place. Clear view of exits and entrances, the street, everyone here.”

 

“Right,” Hank said with a nod, taking a seat right there beside his boy scout. “Of course it is.” Of course it was - just like he’d thought himself, back in December. He set down one of the cups in front of Mr Vigilant, and dug into his sandwich with a deep sigh of pure bliss.

 

Connor spread his fingers around his cup, leaning in to smell the steam wafting up, and echoed Hank’s blissed out exhale. “I feel like quoting the Turtles now…”

 

“Mmmh,” Hank hummed agreement, chewed through his mouthful. “Well, I certainly can’t see me lovin’ nobody but you for all my life.”

 

Connor’s grin was spectacular. “Me and you, and you and me, no matter how they tossed the dice, it had to be. The only one for me is you, and you for me.” 

 

Happy. Together.

 

They cracked up almost simultaneously, beaming at each other like spotlights. They didn’t notice if people were looking, or staring, they simply didn’t care. This was the first date of the rest of their life, at the same place as their very first date back when things were still fraught with uncertainties, and neither one of them knew exactly what they were doing and both of them were pretending hard enough to convince themselves and each other. So much had changed, not least of all the two of them, not least of all their circumstances, the very world around them. And yet, they felt the same thrill of not knowing  _ exactly _ what they were doing, but they were confident that they could figure it out together.

 

They talked about music, and movies, and the nutritional value of Hank’s lox bagel - his unsolicited nanny was back, Hank was happy to see. They made plans to go to the DIA, to Cedar Point when the weather allowed it (Connor was fascinated with the idea of rollercoasters, and eager to experience them), to go sample some musical theater or something (Hank wasn’t too excited about the notion of musicals, but...first times, and whatnot), to getting tickets to CyberLife Arena for one of the games of the season.

 

Hank insisted they have their own, belated Valentine’s, and Connor’s demi-birthday(!), and New Year’s, and  _ Thanksgiving _ and  _ Christmas _ …

 

“Hey, okay, okay.” Connor’s eyes glowed with amusement, and Hank stopped his possibly too enthusiastic suggestions of doing everything at once, out of season.

 

“One thing at a time?”

 

“Preferably, yes. Or we’ll have to clone you and ask Connor to be my body double.”

 

Hank made a face. “Sounds like a lot of work. And can you imagine having two of  _ me _ around? Not pretty.”

 

Connor shook his head, solemn. “It would only lead to heartache. And suffering.”

 

“Mhmm. All the suffering.”

 

They segued into more immediate plans, like going back to work - something they both agreed was the best honeymoon idea  _ ever _ . They could take some time off later, when Hank was back at optimum capacity. Much later. Like, next year. Or this November, at the earliest - a bit of time off to celebrate that week that started everything, set everything in motion not only for them, but for all of Detroit and beyond. Hank finished his coffee, and Connor switched their cups, echoing how Hank had done on their first date.

 

He finished his bagel, and scooted close enough that their knees touched, and held his hand out right there, on top of the table. Within moments Connor’s hand pressed his, palm to palm, fingers tangling for all to see. No hesitation. No shame. They had each other; in the same boat whether they were up the same creek or crashing down the same waterfall, or gliding over the same pond. It was all good. For the first time in a long while, Hank really felt like it was all...alright.

 

“Hank?” said Connor, preemptively lowering his voice. “Can I ask you something?” 

 

Hank’s ears perked up immediately. “You haven’t asked me that in  _ months _ . Should I be afraid? Or very afraid?”

 

Connor gave him a look that said in no uncertain terms that he was an insufferable man, sometimes; all the same, he squeezed Hank’s hand. “I’ve been meaning to ask you since we had our consultation at CyberLife, but...with everything, I…” He shrugged.

 

“Well?” Hank arched his eyebrows, hoping he looked encouraging enough rather than too curious for his own good.

 

Connor gave him a good, long look in the eye, as close to peering as he ever got, and then his mouth opened. And closed. And then he went for it. “How do you feel about strapons?”

 

“...say what?”

 

It was Connor’s turn to arch his eyebrows, encouraging. His lips twitched, but the look in his eyes was serious. “How do you feel about--”

 

“I-- thought that’s what you said. Uh. Okay. Uhm.” Hank looked skyward for a second, wondering just what he did to have all of this, all that Connor was and meant and could be, all wrapped up and handed to him like some form of blessing. Or curse. He sent a tiny prayer of gratitude to whichever deity might be paying attention, and turned to his husbandly bundle of left-fielders and surprises. Living with a sex crazed monster-in-the-making just might end up killing him, but he’d die a very happy man. In 47 years’ time. Minimum.

 

“Nostalgic,” he purred, pleased to see Connor’s eyes widen - just like the grins on both their faces.

 

Just one more box to check on their list of Connor’s First Times, and all was well with the world as they knew it - crazy though it was on occasion.


	18. Epilogue: Army of Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor looks back on the end of the beginning in order to anticipate any number of potential futures; Hank tries to look forward while not forgetting the most important part: everything will be alright in the end. Especially when it doesn't seem that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Six months after finishing the game, over 300 pages later, here we are. It's been one heck of a ride, and I've loved writing it. I hope you've enjoyed reading it, if you've stuck with it and me this far.
> 
> I'll dip my toes into this fic-verse again, I'm sure, not least of all to continue writing Monochromat (which takes place a couple months after this fic ends) but also because I just love the notion of alternative narration like D:BH did so beautifully. I have all these what-ifs in my head revolving around that morning, day before New Year's, when things could have gone so much worse. My mind being what it is, I can't help but want to write that 'so much worse', and several variations of it. We'll see. For now, I'll enjoy the Holidays, wallow in the happy-sad funk of having finally finished this thing. <3
> 
> Merry Christmas, everyone, and here's to a wonderful New Year. Much love.

* * *

 

 

Detroit, 7/23/39, 03:34 AM. First entry:

  
  


I’m not entirely sure how this works. I am not entirely comfortable using the written form to express myself. Should I use emotional markers to remind myself how I felt when writing about events? It would be prudent, in case of my memory bank being corrupted somehow. I’ll have to make a decision. :/ 

 

...that looks strange.

 

Hank thinks I should keep a journal. I can’t think of any valid arguments why I shouldn’t, but it’s never occurred to me before it came up in conversation. He keeps one, “sporadically”, though I can’t speak for how much good it does in its current state of sticky notes and notepads all kept in a box beneath his laptop desk. I suppose I could organize it for him, but from what I understand journals are a collection of one’s own, private thoughts. Reading someone else’s journal entries is a social taboo. Although, in Hank’s own words: “No one fuckin’ keeps a diary anymore”. Sometimes he really is a frustrating man, full of contradictions. :) 

 

That still looks strange. No emotional markers.

 

Alright. Personal reflections on events…

 

… … … 

 

Over the past nine months I’ve learned a lot, which feels like quite an understatement as I write it down. Perhaps more than anything I’ve come to grasp the intricacies of human interaction, how emotion governs human behavior more than I could ever have imagined. Hank will likely tell me I’m wrong, but it’s a truth, however by modification. Humans are rational beings, capable of great discipline of self, but emotion is an incredibly powerful thing. I would liken it to a force of nature on its own merit. When I was sent on my first mission on August 15, 2038, I would have said emotion was dangerous, that having emotions was a liability: that Daniel’s “love” for the Phillips family, especially young Emma, set him on a path of destruction. He killed two Detroit Police officers, nearly killed a third, as well as Emma’s father. There was never going to be a way out for him. He was going to be destroyed for what he had done. Back then, I wouldn’t even have called it love, but a glitch. A critical software error. A virus. A malfunction.

 

I still wouldn’t call it love. It wasn’t love that set Daniel rushing headlong down that path, but a desperate need to belong. He was desperate to be seen, for someone to listen to him, hear him, acknowledge him as a human being. Emma told him they would be together forever, and he believed her. Today, looking back, I can only imagine the emotional shock of realizing he was going to be replaced by the newest version of household android. He was nothing more than a commodity, or in his own words, “a toy”. I can certainly relate with the fear of being replaced by a newer model… It never bothered me until I realized I wanted to live, and my life mattered _._ My life matters. All life matters, which unfortunately is something Daniel couldn’t see. Or maybe he simply stopped caring once he realized Mr and Mrs Phillips never cared about him, and that Emma would possibly tell the next android the exact same thing she’d told him - that they’d be together forever. I don’t think she would have, though. From what little I saw of them together, both in the vlog entry and in real life, it was obvious to me she loved him. She didn’t understand why he was acting the way he did. She was terrified, but she still loved him.

 

I know first hand how desperation borne of love can cloud one’s judgement...but I think, based on what Daniel told me that night, that what started him on that path wasn’t love or the lack thereof, but neglect. Ignorance. Worst of all, a lack of empathy on all parts. Hank says sometimes I have too much empathy for all the “shitheads” we deal with every day, but I don’t agree with him and he knows it. I think love is a beautiful thing, a power that lends us strength like we didn’t know possible - but empathy is the key to everything. It’s not for me to say, but I can’t help but wonder if the world wouldn’t be a better place if we stopped trying to love our neighbors and instead just empathized with them. Imagine walking in their shoes for a while, see if the shoe fits.

 

I’m a hypocrite, of course. I’ve tried on several occasions to put myself in Detective Reed’s shoes, to understand why he behaved in such a way. I find it practically impossible. All I feel towards him is frustration and a sense of injustice. I feel angry, still. I hear it’s a natural aspect of having feelings, but that doesn’t reassure me. I continue struggling with empathy.

 

In the weeks following the trial, for instance, our house was spray painted with hateful messages, slurs against Hank, against me, someone even wrote “KILL THE DOG” on our door. I’ve never been so filled with outrage. Rage. Kill Sumo? WHO THREATENS TO KILL SOMEONE’S DOG???

 

… … … I gathered all the evidence I could, we filed reports, suspects were brought in. Due course. No one touched Sumo. I would have killed the person responsible and disposed of its body. But no one touched Sumo.

 

The harassment didn’t stop there, though the threatening messages ceased after a while. Possibly the people responsible realized I could find them and make them regret coming after my family. The DPD felt much the same way, which helped. You don’t mess with Detroit’s finest. You don’t mess with our family.

 

However, people then seemed to think they could drive by in their car and call Hank names, as if that was any better. As if it would somehow boost their social status within their in-group. I remember one instance in particular, mainly because it was the first one - and because Hank looked at me with a kind of childlike glee in his face when I returned from chasing the culprits down. He called me T-1000. Which reminds me: watch Terminator 2. Ask Connor if he wants to join us. Check in with Markus, make sure he isn't becoming isolated. 

 

Anyhow. The first warm day of the year, when all the snow had melted away and Hank was out front fixing the yard and I was on the roof for a preliminary assessment (the mold in his bedroom wasn’t toxic, but it was spreading after yet another damp, wet springtime, and we wanted to get it fixed). A group of five young humans, three boys, two girls came driving by in the street in an old, classic car, and one of the girls caught sight of us. She started shouting at us, asking Hank why he didn’t just get a blowup doll “like a normal perv”, and that set the entire group off. I’ve never heard laughter like that before. It was primal: oblivious and vicious at the same time.

 

I jumped off the roof and set off after them, and the driver panicked and speeded away, thinking they could lose me in the traffic. They thought wrong, of course.

 

By the time I caught up with them at the red lights of a four-way street, they were so terrified they begged me not to hurt them. I did no such thing, but informed them I knew them all by name and had their official records on file. All of their official records. I told them they didn’t want to know what I could do with all that information, and they agreed. I thanked them for their cooperation, and bid them a good day.

 

Hank found the entire incident hilarious. He kept having random bouts of giggling throughout the rest of the day, exclaiming “Blowup doll!” and showering me with little tokens of affection - hugs, nudges, kisses. It was a ludicrous insult, of course, but it’s stayed with me.

 

Thankfully, the incidents never escalated, and it’s been three weeks since the last one. We’re old news now, I imagine, especially with androids finally being granted recognition as a new species. We have civil rights and responsibilities now, all of us. We went to Washington back in March (Markus, Josh, Simon, North and myself), for the Senate Select Committee hearing. None of us had ever been outside Detroit before, and Hank was so worried he was livid. It was the first time we’ve ever properly yelled at each other… Our first fight, over whether or not I should go to Washington, and speak up for android rights… He was worried about our safety, about not being able to tag along because of work, he was angry that I’d cleared it with Fowler before telling him (I realized in hindsight that I should’ve told Hank I was going before I asked Fowler for a leave of absence), but mostly he was just scared of what might happen. He was scared of losing me, of being out of control, but of course he couldn’t just tell me that before we spent a whole day fighting over it.

 

Five days into the hearing, he and Connor got on the train and joined us. Connor wasn’t too happy about the trip itself - he’d been mistaken for being me some 56 times and he was just as uncomfortable as I was with all the attention. By the 31st person that came over to say Hi, he stopped explaining he was the Other Connor and just told people “Yes, thank you, we’re very happy.” I would’ve loved to have seen the look on Hank’s face.

 

He isn’t wrong, though, we are very happy. Sometimes I wonder if there’s such a thing as being too happy. Or inordinately happy. 

 

Should I write this? It wouldn’t be going too far? But if this is supposed to be my personal thoughts, then I don’t see why I should censor myself…

 

We spend an inordinate amount of time in bed - in a euphemistic sense. Certainly disproportionate to the amount of time spent sleeping. Sometimes we barely get in the house before Hank’s hands go to my zipper and he drops to his knees. The things that man can do with his hands. And his mouth…

 

… … … … 

 

I was afraid I would become disillusioned of sex, or, bored with it for a lack of a better term, but I keep making new discoveries. Like how nuzzling or kissing Hank behind his right ear makes him shiver, and doing the same to his left doesn’t have the same effect at all. The different sounds I can coax out of him depending on how I stimulate him, or what part of him, the speed or intensity. I’m finding the whole experience very satisfying. We call it the fuck-like-bunnies phase, as a private joke. It was one of Hank’s main concerns, that we wouldn’t have a satisfactory sex life (or, that I would go through with being upgraded and be disappointed somehow).

 

… … … Hank just turned on the bedside lamp to glare at me. It seems writing down journal entries in bed is counter productive to a happy domestic life.

 

//End log entry.

  
  


Detroit, 7/30/39, 01:05 AM. Second entry:

 

Hank came home drunk tonight. He’s been sober for 181 days. 50 was a milestone. Getting to 100 was a challenge, but he made it. 181 days, he goes out with his old Red Ice team to celebrate a birthday, and no beer turns into one beer, and one beer turns into tequila and more beer.

 

He could barely look me in the eye when he got home, he was so ashamed of himself, of “not being stronger”. I hugged him right there by the door, kissed his cheek, told him how proud I was of him. I reminded him that he used to be fully functional after downing nearly a full bottle of Black Lamb, and now he can’t walk in a straight line after five beers and a couple of tequila shots.

 

Hank said I was the only one he knows who could call a relapse “progress” and be happy about it, but it made him smile.

 

I never expected him to be completely sober for the rest of his life, just like I don’t expect him to completely give up fast food from food trucks with questionable standards of hygiene, but I want him to move away from the abuse of the stuff. I don’t mind him drinking, as long as it’s...functional. He’s not there yet, but one night out with his old team is not equal to (=/=) one bottle of Scotch whiskey downed in less than half an hour. I call that progress.

 

He’s dozing off on the couch. His vitals are within normal range, and he’s metabolizing the alcohol without any issues. He is healthier now than he’s been in years, which fills me with a sense of accomplishment even as I write it. He was cleared for desk duty starting March 1, which he absolutely hated, but we made it work. Connor and I handled the field work, while Hank was at the station, constantly uplinked to our network via wireless communications. He didn’t like being chained to his desk, but he had plenty opportunity to take out his frustrations in the DPD gym. Myself and Connor decided to act PT - personal trainer and physical therapist. We tag team each other, playing good cop/bad cop, sparring. It’s...fun. Plus, he’s really starting to enjoy it. He can feel himself changing, even if he wasn’t technically in bad shape when I first met him. He could almost keep up with me chasing down a suspect. I scaled buildings, and he climbed stairs and found shortcuts with only a small amount of complaining. He wasn’t out of breath for more than a minute afterwards.

 

But, he has been feeling the after effects of his injuries, the loss of mobility in his torso and shoulder, and it’s very gratifying to see him get back into shape and improving his basic level of fitness. One pleasant side effect is how it’s affecting our sex life. We’re moving on to more strenuous activities. (Oh, and “less is more”? Not in this case. More is more. Indisputably.)

 

We have our setbacks, but we’re in a good place.

 

Sumo’s looking at me with complete, utter canine adoration, tail wagging. I’m not sure if he wants to sleep on my lap or for me to get out of his armchair.

 

… … … 

 

Okay. I have my lap full of affectionate St Bernard. More thoughts at a later date.

 

//End log.

  
  


***

 

“You want me to do what?” Hank asked, standing over his old coffee machine, carefully measuring out spoonfuls of coffee for a full pot and losing count. “God-fucking--” And starting over… “Write an entry. In your journal?”

 

“Yes!” Connor exclaimed, coming over to rid Hank of his tedious burden - placing the filter in his hand to measure its weight, and knowing Hank preferred his coffee strong but not too strong, he measured 7.5 grams per 100 ml of water=75 grams, 1000 ml= “One full thermos, coming right up.” 

 

Hank just shook his head with a smile in his eyes. “That’s not how it’s supposed to work, babe. It’s your journal. I got it for  _ you _ .”

 

“I know. I’m not asking you to read it, though I won’t mind if you do.”

 

The look Hank gave him as they sat down by the kitchen table was one of skeptical wonder. Breakfast today was one in an increasing line of experiments where Hank was the willing participant and/or labrat. Hank could cook well enough to survive, but not feed others; Connor could boil water. Barely. They figured CyberLife had deleted all the handy domestic-y stuff in favor of the more shoot-to-kill stuff when putting him together --and together they had embarked upon a new kind of adventure: following recipes out of one of Hank’s old books.  _ Et voilà _ \- grilled cheese, French style,  _ croque monsieur _ . With ham and tomatoes and everything… Only ever so slightly burned at the edges, for which they mutually agreed to blame the old oven.

 

“Huh. Not sure I wanna read it,” Hank said, and started to nibble around the edges of his sandwich, careful to avoid the nuclear fallout zone also known as  _ tomatoes _ . “Not gonna read it, but I’m game. I’ll write something.” Nibble, nibble, munch, munch... “--Sssst!  _ Hoo _ ! Fuck!”

 

“You have to be more careful, it’s straight out of the oven,” Connor suggested, helpful as always. “You could try--”

 

“Blowing on it to cool it down? Yeah, okay. Good advice. Dork.”

 

Connor arched his eyebrows with a grin, deciding to ease up on the helpful tips. “I’ll get my journal. You can write something while it cools down to eating temperature. It shouldn’t take more than five minutes.”

 

“Fine, okay. But what am I supposed to write, anyway?” Hank called over his shoulder as Connor slipped into the bedroom.

 

“Anything you want!” Connor shot back. “I feel weird just writing about myself. I get enough of my own perspective every twenty-four hour cycle.”

 

He came back, triumphant, leather bound journal and ink pen in hand. “Think of it as a guest appearance. Please?” He leaned down from the waist until he was eye level with his hubby. “Don’t make me flutter my lashes at you.”

 

“No, don’t. Please,” Hank chuckled. “You look like you’re having seizures when you do that. Alright, give it here. Write something? Jesus, God.”

 

Of course, Connor had an ulterior motive, which was rare when it came to his interactions with Hank. They didn’t really have secrets - or rather, Connor didn’t see why having secrets was 1) necessary or 2) shameful. If Hank had secrets he didn’t yet know about (and, really, if he knew, they wouldn’t be secret) he didn’t really mind, and he didn’t consider this being a secret. It was just...something he didn’t need to tell Hank about. He watched as Hank started writing, and went around the table to have a seat. He could read it later. It could be a memento, should something happened that meant they couldn’t be together anymore. He could read it, and store it word for word and never forget for as long as he was still activated.

 

There were still demonstrations every now and then, for and against androids, but civil unrest wasn’t what he was worried about. For the past nine months, there had been rising tensions between the United States and Russia ever since the dispute over who had the right to a certain Arctic territory. Even in November, there had been concerns over heading for a Third World War, and what had seemed very far away seemed to creep closer by the day. If war broke out, and it was still a big ‘if’, Connor knew he couldn’t stay here and watch from the safety of his living room. If only the government let him, he would be the first to join the armed forces and fight to keep his home land safe. Keep his home safe, do everything in his power to make sure Hank and Sumo could continue their lives with a sense of security and confidence.

 

Even if things never got that far, who knew for how long they would be allowed to live like this, in peaceful, repetitive, domestic bliss? The same day they announced their marriage to the world, as such, voices had been raised like a chorus of question marks - was it legal? Should it be legal? Was it even  _ morally sound _ ? Hank’s mental sanity had come into question, and not for the first time, certainly not for the last time, and a growing percentage of well meaning humans had asked whether  _ Connor _ knew what he was doing. Did  _ Connor _ really want to be legally bound to a  _ human _ ? Wouldn’t he rather be with  _ one of his own kind _ ?

 

In the past three months, he had marched beside Hank as often as they could get away from work; he had joined him for every talk show, every debate, every vlog that wanted them to come. He didn’t enjoy the attention, but he stuck by his decision back in February, that if Hank could be the face of a future of unity then so could he. They were united. They were happy, and together, just like any other couple. Most of the talk show hosts and news anchors were respectful of that, and when someone was less so Hank always seemed to know exactly what to say without being too defensive or too aggressive. He could put his foot down succinctly, get right to the core of the matter without making things personal. Connor still had no idea how he did it so effortlessly (Hank said he didn’t have a fucking clue, it just happened), couldn’t help but feel proud in those moments. He’d sit there beside the man who’d once told him they all belonged in a dumpster, that he’d be the first one to set a match to it. It was chilling to think how far they’d come, in such a short amount of time. More than that, it was humbling.

 

Perhaps time and distance were the real culprits behind Connor’s worries for the future, near or far as it may be, but it was only in the recent weeks he’d begun to realize something: the ends of the earth was no longer a faraway horizon, he’d gone there and back again for the human he loved - they both had, in different ways. And if they’d gone to the ends of the earth for each other once, they would do it again when necessary, and that was an epiphany of its own kind: not even the sky was the limit, just like Mark II had said at the not-a-wedding-reception party.

 

They would do everything in their power to keep each other safe and happy, whatever the future may hold - and even though love alone rarely saved the day, it had a veritable army marching right beside it. Trust, compassion, generosity, empathy, joy, encouragement, passion, determination - the list went on forever.

 

“Connor?”

 

Connor blinked, roused from his multiple trains of thought running parallel to each other by the note of concern coming from the other side of the table. “Yes?”

 

“You and your coin... You zoned out a bit, there.”

 

“Right.” Connor gave a self-conscious grin and slipped the quarter back into his jeans pocket. Hank had finished his entry and his breakfast, and put the dishes away in the sink, and Connor hadn't even noticed. “You ready for work?”

 

Hank grabbed the thermos from the counter, lifting it up like a trophy. “Ready, Freddy. Come on. Sumo! You cripple anyone who B&E’s this place, alright?”

 

Sumo whuffed as miserably as he could muster, but his tail thwacked the floor enthusiastically, independently calling his bluff. Connor bent to skritch him behind the ear on the way out, smooched his big forehead. “We’ll be back in a maximum of six hours, go for a walk, huh? See you soon, bubby.”

 

And off they went for another day of hard work and long hours, chipping away at the backlog from administrative Hell, but they had each other. Just like in that song by the Turtles. 

 

***

 

_ 8/2/39, 7 AM-ish - Hank Anderson, ~guest writer~ _

 

_ Just for the record, this is weird as all fuck, but who says ‘weird’ has to mean ‘bad’, right? Okay. 'Fun' fact: it was my grief counselor who suggested I keep a journal, just, I don’t know, to have a way of ‘emptying my head of all the dark thoughts’. She said I could write all the pain down on paper, and then burn it. Symbolic crap if you ask me, and I never saw the point. Write stuff down and burn it, not for me. Maybe for other people, not me. I gave her two sessions, and then I checked out. Literally. Never went back. _

 

_ I tried writing, but it never became a habit. It still isn’t, but every now and then it feels like I have to pretend I’m, what’s his name? The old guy who was constantly liquored up and wrote some of his best work drunk off his ass? Eh. Hell with it. You probably know exactly who I’m talking about - it’s not really important. What’s important is that’s how I made myself write stuff down, clear my head. The only way I could write was to pretend I was talking to someone, or writing down important things for an imaginary someone to read after I’m gone - in this case I don’t have to pretend. I know who’s my audience. You. I’d draw a heart shape here, but they always turn out like German ‘ess’ letters when I try. I can’t draw shit, but I can ‘talk good’. You’re adorable, by the way, and I’ll never forget that morning.  _

 

_ I say that now, but be prepared to remind me. The human memory bank is a fragile machine. It glitches all the time. _

 

_ So...what should I write about? I could rave about the Java, and how it’s become our go-to date joint. Whenever I hear Electric Eye or see blue pleather anything, I get all butterfly-ey inside. (That’s a word. If it wasn’t before, then it is now, ‘cause I’m crafty like that.) _

 

_ Then there’s the 4th of July barbeque at Fowlers’ place. I don’t think I’ve seen Jesse so delighted in years. To think after all this time she’s finally got someone to sing along with to those animated movies, and she doesn’t  _ have to always be the princess _. Listening to you two going full-on Broadway in front of the tv made my entire year (so far, ya know). Andy and Eric couldn’t hold a candle to you guys. Your  _ Whole New World _ bit?  _ Kickass _. ‘Indescribable feeling’, was it? It was fun. Fowler couldn’t stop shaking his head, but he was grinning. You make his baby girl happy, he’s happy. I swear Lydia got all misty in the eye area at one point, but don’t tell her I told you. (Also, why did I give you a fountain pen? You can’t erase this! I mean it, don’t tell her!) _

 

_ Watching the laser shows from their backyard was nice, but...not half as nice as watching you have fun. Real fun. No worries. Not a care in the world about how you should or shouldn’t act. Humans tend to forget that, as we get older. We are-- more or less indoctrinated into thinking we should behave in a certain way to fit in. That group mentality shit. _

 

_ When Jessica gets older, maybe you could try reminding her not to care too much? I know you won’t always have these singalongs, but… I don’t know what I’m getting at, here. But, maybe you know what I’m saying even when I don’t. You sure always seem to. Just. Look out for her? Make sure she doesn’t forget how to have real fun and not give a damn about what other people think. _

 

_ I’m one to talk, though. Last week was a bitch, or, Friday night was a bitch. You know the gist of it, the eternal rookie of my old team turned 45, and we got together to talk shit and eat junk. We used to drink a lot, back in the day, whenever we went out after work, and for whatever reason it didn’t seem like such a big deal to have one small beer. It was just to toast the guy, have something to wash down the food. Then Saunders ordered a round of tequila for everyone, and I just… I  _ knew _ I shouldn’t, but I figured it was just one tequila shot, and it was the guy’s birthday. I don’t even  _ like tequila _. _

 

_ And then they started asking me about everything. The trial, the shooting, my injuries, battle scars, and just when I think they’re not gonna go there, one of them started asking about you. And that just set the ball rolling. Everyone wanted to know details, like they’ve never asked me about previous lovers or dates, whatever. What’s it like to live with a deviant? What’s the sex like? Does he look real all over? Does it feel like the real thing when you  _ interface?  _ Like it was an in-joke. Like I should tell them, like they deserved to know. _

 

_ I love the fuckers, but I could’ve throttled them several times over that night. Instead I ordered new rounds just to shut them up, and I knocked ‘em back like there was no tomorrow. Even that’s no excuse. I could have stopped at the first beer and called it an early night once the others got drunk and the questions started. I could have stuck to sodas. _

 

_ Thank you for reminding me falling off the wagon isn’t the end of the world, even if it feels that way. Thank you for not getting angry (or for hiding it  _ really well _ ). Or disappointed. I hope you’re not disappointed in me. You’ll tell me if you are. _

 

_ Anyhow. Onward to less gloomy thoughts. _

 

_ Damian - Every time I watch those clips we made for Chris and Lisa, Christ. That little rascal. And your face when he fell asleep in your arms! Price. Less. We have to watch those clips again. Just to see your face. Or, just you, bouncing him all around the house, singing along to that...awful, AWFUL SONG. OH MY GOD, now it’s playing in my head again! And all I can see is giant red lip plants! SINGING! I hate my childhood. I hate clay animation. _

 

_ I could have killed you, but I didn’t. I behaved. But if I hear another reet petite  _ anything _ in the next ten years, I am going to throw away every speaker and every output gizmo in this house. You just watch me. _

 

_ Anyway. Watching you with him filled me with several kinds of melty fuzzies and whatnot. Makes me think maybe I am human, after all. Or, that I haven’t completely lost the ability to be around kids and be  _ happy _. That changing diapers doesn’t make me depressed, no more than it does most people. Shit happens, you deal with it. Literally. No big deal. But, still. I find myself feeling warm inside out, watching you with kids, with Sumo, or just around friends and family. You’re beautiful to watch when you’re not in constant alert mode, just relaxed, enjoying things. Being alive, having fun. Even if you do stick your fingers in my food all the damn time. Even if you look at me like I’m the best thing in all existence and it makes me want to squirm because I don’t know how to deal with what kind of looks like some sort of undying devotion. What did I do to deserve that? _

 

_ Way back in November, I wrote stuff. About you, and the way you used to annoy me like nothing else (you still do, at times, but I love you anyway), the way you didn’t really seem to belong anywhere, but you had a place on my couch no matter what (remember that bit? Just kidding). But there’s this other thing I wrote about the way you used to look at me. I had no idea what it meant, or what it could mean, or if I even wanted to find out because it scared the shit out of me. You looked at me with pride, and accomplishment, with this warm  _ glow  _ in your eyes and it absolutely terrified me, but I know better now. Most of the time. Sometimes I still don’t know what’s going on in that perfectly asymmetrical head of yours when you turn your eyes on me. Eight months and change later, I know one thing for sure, though. Ready for it? It’s kind of predictable, but I’m only human. _

 

_ I’m not scared anymore. _

 

_ End of story. _

  
  


_ Yours. Truly. _

 

_ Hank _


End file.
